


14,000 Degrees of the Burning Heart

by Saasan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A.G.R.A., Avoiding spoiler tags, BAMF John Watson, But she's not great, Canon-Typical Violence, Confessions, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Language, F/M, John Watson Needs A Hug, M/M, Mary isn't terrible, Moriarty is Alive, Mycroft needs a hug, Nursery Rhyme References, Pining, Psychological Torture, Tags Are Hard, fixing season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-15 16:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13616874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saasan/pseuds/Saasan
Summary: Less than 12 hours after Sherlock decides to give Mary Morstan a quick background check--it'd be remiss of himnotto investigate his best friend's new fiancée--he receives a package from Moriarty: a thumb drive and a taunting message.Mary, Mary, quite contrary...I told you I'd burn your heart outOr, the author is pissed about the Mary twist and that the writers decided to pretend they never hinted that Sherlock loves Watson.  Lazy show writing.  Just awful.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I *adore* Johnlock. And I *adore* the Sherlock BBC series. And frankly just adore Sherlock Holmes in general. I read all the stories back in grade school and had a total crush on Sherlock. Then writers of the show decided to take something precious and beautiful, something bursting with potential, and shove it full of ridiculous plot twists, lazy gimmicks, and overall shoddy work. This story is me appeasing myself. I hope you enjoy my attempt to salvage it!

Mary was a problem. That was a certainty. The exact nature of said problem was, as yet, a mystery, but Sherlock was nothing if not a lover and solver of mysteries. There was no active case at the moment, and with John out on a date with Mary, Sherlock might as well spend the 20 or so minutes that it would take to resolve the mystery. He was bored anyway.

 

Sherlock settled onto the couch and steepled his fingers. First, what he knew about John’s current state: John was angry at him. Forgiven him? Yes. Angry? Still yes. Sherlock had been present at the graveside when John had cried for him. It was soothing in a way Sherlock had not expected. During his two year absence, he’d thought often of John. It had been logical to assume that John also thought of him. His therapist (waste of money) would doubtless have encouraged him to date or be otherwise socially involved with someone. Expected. John was something of a serial dater, but perhaps with the loss of Sherlock—and consequent significant increase of free time in the evenings—he would sustain greater periods of monogamous relationships. His record while living with Sherlock had been 2 months before getting dumped. Grief plus available time for comfort plus prolonged access to comfort equaled long-term girlfriend. Again, expected. What was unexpected was that said girlfriend was still present nearly two months since Sherlock’s return. That turned to part two: what Sherlock knew about Mary.

 

Mary was intelligent (so far as that goes), active, lively, socially engaging. All marks in her favor, per Mrs. Hudson. She displayed the usual types of affection and no apparent signs of infidelity, unhappiness, or control. She liked John, Mrs. Hudson, the Work, and even Sherlock himself. Hold on—that was something. She liked Sherlock. No one liked Sherlock (notable exceptions: Molly, Mrs. Hudson, John, Mummy, possibly Lestrade).

 

Sherlock made note of this point and moved on. John’s relationship with Mary had thus far continued (flourished?) despite his return. Other than liking Sherlock, was there another difference between Mary and John’s previous women? Uncertain. Perhaps the Fall had affected the type of women John wanted? That was closer, Sherlock thought. The persistency of John’s anger toward him (very petty of him, but then John was full of sentiment) indicated a higher degree of hurt than Sherlock had calculated. Sherlock hated it. He hated to be wrong, and he hated to hurt John. John was tough. Hurting John—deeply hurting John—was a difficult task. Sherlock was not proud to have accomplished it. But, John had missed Sherlock. That meant he liked Sherlock, as maddening as he was. So, Sherlock saw no reason to change himself or his behavior. He was getting off track.

 

The Fall. Had the Fall _changed_ John? The loss of the war had not changed John, but it had taken from John his identity as “soldier” and left him only with “doctor”, and not even with “surgeon”. The loss of Sherlock had…made him lonely. Betrayed? No. John could not have felt betrayed at the time, at least, because Sherlock had died. Without knowing Sherlock was not, in fact, dead John could only feel grief from absence, not from wrong-doing (not that Sherlock was in the wrong, but John failed to see this. No matter). So, a lonely John without his war had the ability and perhaps now the motive to achieve a longer romantic relationship. Interesting. John wanted security. John wanted domesticity.

 

Sherlock frowned. No. That was wrong. John’s hand was steady, his cane unused. Conclusion: Mary provides or represents an element of the danger John Watson craves.

 

Now, knowing that Mary is dangerous (dangerous to someone or something; possibly dangerous to John himself but unlikely), Sherlock needed to determine what made Mary dangerous and if that meant he needed to inform John. Sherlock smiled. The game was on.

 

~*~*~

 

 

The difficult part, Sherlock reflected, would be finding an excuse to spend time with Mary, preferably with John present. He could hardly invite her over to socialize (a hideous concept under the best of circumstances) without raising suspicion. He would almost certainly be dependent on receiving an invitation. The odds of that were increasing, thankfully. The longer a couple was together, the greater the likelihood of their inviting others to social events, most commonly dinner parties. Sherlock had traditionally been spared such atrocities by merit of having no friends, but John was his friend, and Mary had yet to object to his presence.

 

“So?” Lestrade asked anxiously. “What have you found?”

 

Ah right. The case.

 

“Door,” he replied.

 

Lestrade blinked at him. “What about the door? No sign of forced entry.”

 

“Not the front door,” Sherlock said in exasperation. “The bathroom door.”

 

Lestrade maintained his idiotic expression. John’s face, on the other hand, was already starting to light up with his thrilling wonder. Sherlock ignored the quick skip of his heart—annoying, expected, inconsequential no matter the circumstances—and began his rapid fire explanation.

 

“The hinges on the bathroom door are freshly oiled. Why would an old man need this and only this recent maintenance in his flat? Victim is nearly deaf and has been for at least five years, which surely even you can observe from his hearing aids, and would neither notice nor care about a squeaking door. Therefore, there is another person either living in or frequenting this flat. Our perpetrator used the bathroom window to enter the apartment but knew there was another resident that would not be deaf and had to take precautions. This means the killer was known to both the victim and the other occupant. Check with the neighbors and his medical records to see if he had a nursing assistant who had scheduled visits, not more than twice a week based on his mail. Check the postdates if you’re curious.”

 

“Brilliant,” John breathed with admiration.

 

“Obvious,” Sherlock corrected, but he ducked his head slightly to acknowledge the compliment. “I trust even the Yard can manage things from here,” he said to Lestrade who rolled his eyes and began barking orders. “Our presence is concluded,” Sherlock said as he turned back to John. “Chinese?”

 

John grinned, knowing that with the case out of the way Sherlock would, as always, turn immediately to food and make up for whatever meals he had missed. “Whatever you like. I’ll be eating with my fiancée, however, and we shall be having Italian.”

 

“Italian works as well,” Sherlock said.

 

John smiled a patient smile, having expected Sherlock to completely miss the point of the sentence. “My fiancée, Sherlock. I’ll be eating with my fiancée.”

 

Sherlock looked at John without surprise. John had been dating Mary for over a year. An engagement was hardly a shock. It did, however, put a timer on his investigation of Mary. All the more convenient for a dinner that very day. “She can come too, of course.”

 

Before John could be frustrated, crestfallen, or annoyed with Sherlock (all three options being strong candidates), Lestrade interrupted and gave John a hearty clap on the shoulder.

 

“Congratulations, John! Congratulations to both of you. That is fantastic,” he beamed. His sentiments were instantly echoed by the various members of the Yard within earshot and John was swarmed with cheers and well-wishes.

 

Right. Congratulations were appropriate, even if one suspected that the fiancée in question would not play the role for long. He waited until the crowd around John had thinned before adding his own thoughts, which were succinct but pleasant.

 

“You probably already knew I was going to propose,” John said with a grin.

 

“Naturally,” Sherlock nodded. “Given the length of the relationship and your increasing need to verify plans with Mary before accompaniment on crime scenes, the inevitably of the proposal was obvious. Equally obvious was Mary’s acceptance as her affection is unceasingly demonstrated. I could continue over dinner, but I prefer that we hail a taxi sooner than later.”

 

“I’ll text Mary and see if she doesn’t mind you joining,” John said. “She likes you a lot you know, Mary.”

 

“An unprecedented circumstance,” Sherlock agreed.

 

John smiled, but Sherlock suspected this had less to do with his comment and more to do with texting Mary. John looked up after a moment. “She said yes. Let’s get a taxi and go eat.”

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

If Sherlock had been the type to be proud of himself over accomplishing trivial niceties, he would have been pleased for remembering to congratulate Mary on the engagement. John was proud of him, but Sherlock failed to notice. His plan for the evening was simply to subtly investigate and the congratulations served to that end.

 

Sherlock proposed a toast and concluded it with a joking smile saying, “And the best of luck to you, Mary, with your background clearance from Mycroft!”

 

She laughed brightly. “Did I not get one already? You Holmes’ are losing your touch!”

 

John shook his head in good humor. “Really now, Sherlock? You two are something else.”

 

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder. “All things according to protocol with Mycroft. God help the man or woman who tries to stop him.”

 

“How did you manage your check?” Mary asked John with warm amusement.

 

“A kidnapping,” John said, “and he tried to bribe me to spy on Sherlock.”

 

“I still think you wasted an opportunity,” Sherlock sulked.

 

“How have I not heard this story?” Mary said and John immediately indulged her in a dramatic retelling, prompting laughter from all three of them.

 

It was, in a number of respects, a highly successful dinner. John in particular had a wonderful time, and even though he spent most of it in blissful focus on his fiancée he did spare a bit of his attention to smile at Sherlock. The love of his life, the amazing woman he was going to marry, actually enjoyed Sherlock. His best friend even seemed to like _her_ , a total first.

 

And John was right. Sherlock did like Mary, so far as that sort of thing went. She was far better than any of his previous choices and, thank god, had a modicum of intelligence. He watched the two of them interact over the course of the meal. Usually he would tune out almost immediately if he was speaking to someone other than John, but tonight his attention was rapt. It was painful. It was always painful to see John happy with someone like this—and he had never seen him happier—but it was even more painful because Sherlock was almost certainly going to break John’s heart right at the moment of his highest bliss. And yet, by the end of the evening, there was no doubt in Sherlock’s mind: Mary was a liar. He had no idea about what, but she was a liar. It was, unfortunately, time to call Mycroft.

 

Once the meal was finished, Sherlock dismissed himself without lingering. He pressed the down usual ache with a practiced ease—his feelings for John were irrelevant and jealousy was petty and beneath him. He pulled out his phone as he stalked into the night. The weather did not warrant a taxi and he was close enough to walk home. He likely would have walked anyway, just so he could flip off the CCTVs he passed as he talked to Mycroft. Perhaps Mycroft would simply text?

 

**John and Mary are engaged. -- SH**

 

The response was near immediate.

 

**Congratulate the happy couple. Tell them not to bother sending me a save-the-date. I intend to be busy that day.**

 

Sherlock couldn’t help a smile at that, and then immediately scowled at himself for smiling at Mycroft. He sent a reply.

 

**Need background check on Mary. – SH**

**Need to spend government resources on useful projects.**

**Defund Scotland Yard. – SH**

**Humorous.**

 

Sherlock knew he was pushing his luck. Even one more text might result in a reciprocal phone call instead of a typed answer, but he was more than willing to risk it (rather than calling first).

 

**Fewer resources spent on background check than on preventing me from obtaining it myself. – SH**

**Conceded. You will accept the next case I give you without moping detestably.**

**Acknowledged. Moping shall be merely testable. -- SH**

 

Thankfully, that was the end of the text exchange and Mycroft never called. Back at Baker Street, Sherlock played his violin until sunrise and then slept on the couch until noon, when he was awoken by Mrs. Hudson.

 

“Hello, dearie. Just noticed something propped up outside for you,” she said as she rapped her knuckles on the door. She handed him a packet.

 

“Excellent,” Sherlock said, swinging his legs onto the floor as he sat up. He had not expected Mycroft’s people to be quite so quick. Perhaps Mycroft wanted to cash in on his case sooner than later? He tore open the packet eagerly.

 

“Something the matter?” Mrs. Hudson asked in concern.

 

Sherlock was holding a slip of paper, his hands shaking. “Mrs. Hudson, did you see who delivered this?” he asked.

 

“No, it wasn’t out there this morning when I went to market but it was here when I got back just now. Gracious, you’re white as a ghost. Shall I make you a cuppa?”

 

“No thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said faintly. “I need to go see someone.” He rose from the couch, still in his dressing gown and slippers, and disappeared out the door. In a daze he hailed a taxi and huddled in the backseat, clutching the contents of the package to close to him: a thumb drive and single piece of paper, littered with hearts and a scrawling message.

 

_Mary, Mary, quite contrary._

_I told you I’d burn your heart out._

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

Upon arriving at Bart’s, Sherlock discovered his dressing gown did not harbor currency of any kind. When the driver protested, Sherlock wisely pointed out that he was the one who had accepted a passenger intent on a hospital visit who was not wearing “clothes”, per se, and it naturally followed that the situation was urgent under the circumstances and said passenger likely did not have money on his person. The driver responded that everyone who hailed a taxi knew bloody well they would need to pay for it and that even simplest idiot knew to call emergency services if they need the hospital that urgently. Sherlock sighed and explained that while he himself was not in dire need of medical attention, there were lives at stake and any attempt to further hinder him would result in police action. The driver was more than happy to involve the police, it turned out, but luckily Molly was passing by and was persuaded to pay the man.

 

“Sherlock, what was that all about?” Molly asked anxiously. She trotted close to him as he strode his way back through the hospital. “Why are you still in your pajamas?”

 

“I did not change out of them,” Sherlock responded, answering only the second question.

 

Molly sputtered a bit at this before trying again. “You're acting strange. I mean, stranger than usual. Which isn't to say you're usually strange, but you are I guess, I just mean there's nothing wrong with being strange but right now you're acting like something's wrong,” she finally concluded.

 

Sherlock's jaw clenched. “Something is wrong, Molly. Something is very wrong.” He passed her the slip of paper. “I need to look inside a thumb drive.”

 

“'I told you I'd burn your heart out',” Molly read softly. “Who is this from?”

 

“Moriarty,” Sherlock said simply, yanking open the door to the lab. Molly scurried in behind him.

 

“He's dead. He has to be. He shot himself on the roof and Mycroft's men took his body,” Molly cried.

 

“It may not be Moriarty directly, but this is absolutely his plan. Not only that,” Sherlock said as he slid the drive into a piece of lab equipment, examining the Xray it generated, “but I think Mycroft's been compromised.” He searched the image closely The drive was free from explosives. It might contain viruses, but at least it could be safely inserted into a computer without harming the user. He glanced over at Molly. “Moriarty is likely dead, but even just a plan he has concocted is beyond dangerous. Please take extra cautions and give me your phone.”

 

Molly blinked a little at that but handed him her phone. “How is giving you my phone being extra cautious?”

 

“It isn't,” Sherlock said, texting rapidly. “For you. But my phone is at Baker Street.” He waited for the replay and then handed the phone back to her. “Stay safe, Molly Hooper. If you receive _any_ communication from me that doesn't include the phrase 'Vatican cameos', assume it is a fake.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead quickly. “Stay safe,” he repeated, and quickly left the room.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

Thirty minutes later Sherlock's ride—courtesy of Mycroft—dropped him off in front of The Diogenes. He strode back to the Stranger's Room immediately and opened the door without hesitation.

 

“Brother mine,” Mycroft by way of greeting. “I am heartily disturbed to see you.”

 

“I am disturbed to be here,” Sherlock replied. “Do you have any equipment present that you unerringly trust to receive a message from Moriarty?” He held up the thumb drive and the note.

 

Mycroft's face paled. “How?” he asked with his lips trembling.

 

“I'd say to check the CCTVs outside Baker Street from this morning, but I doubt we'd learn too much. Also, either your phone or mine is compromised, unless you've informed your minions of my request regarding Mary Morstan, in which case I cannot say where the leak is from.”

 

“Of course I've informed my 'minions'—to use your ill turn of phrase,” Mycroft said. “You know I do not do leg work.” He retrieved his laptop and inserted the drive.

 

Dozens of video clips queued up to play, accompanied by hundreds of pictures of documents. It was all about Mary. Mycroft shook his head.

 

“A.G.R.A. I thought they'd all died during the embassy incident in Georgia, but I see now that our little Mary is the missing Rosamund. Pity. Pass my regrets on to Dr. Watson. I don't know what Rosamund would want with the dear doctor, but a killer of her skills doesn't get to retire.”

 

Sherlock's eyes scanned through the documents. So, Mary was an assassin and a damn good one. Her teammates—the other members of A.G.R.A., an elite band of muscle for hire—had died during a hostile takeover of an embassy in Georgia. How the hell was he going to tell John, and what was it that Moriarty wanted him to do about it? Should he confront Mary first? Whatever happened, John's safety had to come first.

 

“I agree fully, brother mine, and I feel it only fair to inform you that you are thinking aloud. As to Mary, I have superiors—and yes, don't roll your eyes, even I have people to answer to—I must consult. She was employed by us at the time of the incident and I am not aware of her being listed as a threat, but knowledge of her survival is both shocking and worrisome considering our intelligence of the event. I recommend we do not confront her just yet, but I heartily insist we take Dr. Watson out of her custody. The last thing I want is to try to reason with you should he be taken hostage. I'm arranging for Anthea to take you back to Baker Street and will have Dr. Watson brought over immediately. And for God's sake, put some clothes on.”

 

Sherlock nodded numbly. Mycroft spared him another glance before continuing.

 

“I suppose to it is too late to warn you of sentiment. It clouds you, weakens you. Remember Redbeard, dear brother,” he chastised, but there was something gentle in it.

 

“A few years late on the precaution, brother, but I think you know that. Do be of use and sod off,” Sherlock snapped.

 

“Naturally, but before I do, I’m switching us to prepaid phones. Until we know otherwise, it’s a necessary precaution. Anthea will have one for you. For once in your life, do be careful. These are grave times, Sherlock. If Moriarty did survive, there’s no telling how far back this leak goes,” Mycroft said. His grip tightened on his umbrella. “I put my best people on it.”

 

“Imagine if you’d put your second best. The Empire would collapse over night,” Sherlock said derisively.

 

If Mycroft made a reply, he didn’t hear it. John. John was in danger. If not from Mary, then certainly from Moriarty. His stomach roiled. John. _John_. Perfect John, both ordinary and astonishing. Slow but brilliant. Average but inescapable. The flawless mystery that had gradually and thoroughly wrecked him. Redbeard indeed, he scoffed. He grudgingly admitted he had loved Redbeard, but John was beyond that. He was essential, not just to the Work but to Sherlock, to everything that made him himself.

 

His feelings for John were selfish. He knew that. He pulled the man to him in everyway he knew how, and John often faced life-threatening danger because of it. But, John was a flame that weakened in the sunlight. He burned bright and alive in the wake of Sherlock’s madness, and Sherlock wouldn’t hide the magnificence of his light simply to prevent it from being blown out. Jewels were meant to be displayed, not hoarded. Bloody hell, he was actually turning poetic. God help him.

 

“God help us all,” he muttered against the glass, watching London speed by as Anthea escorted him back to Baker Street. “God help us all.”

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

Sherlock was pacing anxiously when John arrived.        

 

“Okay, why exactly did Mycroft just kidnap me? I would've just come if you'd called me,” John said, miffed. He walked into the flat, feeling both annoyed and curious. Mostly annoyed. He’d been in the middle of a patient exam when Mycroft’s goons arrived. It had taken considerable (loud) convincing before they left long enough for him to finish with the patient. Unbelievable, but also par for the course. The Holmes boys were something else.

 

Sherlock looked on the verge of saying something, but instead he thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and whirled away, dressing gown floating behind him as an admirable replacement for his usual coat.

 

 “Seriously, did you just get up or something? Why are you in pajamas? What's going on?” John said. He was getting a little concerned.

 

“I had hoped to talk to Mary before speaking to you, but I do not have the luxury of time at the moment,” he said. His voice sounded strained.

 

John gasped. “What is it? What's happened to Mary? Sherlock, _what the hell_ is going on?!” he demanded, his louder and more frantic than he had intended.

 

Wordlessly, Sherlock handed him the message from Moriarty and then waved toward the laptop. He resumed pacing, but occasionally stole a glance at John's face.

 

 John’s hands shook as he read the scrawled message several times. “What is this?” he whispered.

 

“A love letter from Moriarty,” Sherlock said, turning his back again and striding to peer out the window. “It arrived this morning along with… that,” he said, gesturing again toward the laptop.

 

John frowned. The evident agitation in Sherlock’s manner was as concerning as the news itself. This wasn’t just something bad from Moriarty—this was something Sherlock desperately wished he didn’t have to know. He squared his shoulders and began looking through the laptop. What he saw made him nauseous. His fiancée was a hired assassin with a staggering record of successful kills. He pushed the machine away before it could make him throw up. _Liar liar liar!_ Mary was a liar. His beautiful, perfect Mary. His blood felt like ice. He barely registered that Sherlock was speaking.

 

“…so sorry, John, truly, but I wouldn’t let you get married without—“

 

“You wouldn’t _let_ me?” John snapped. “You wouldn’t let me get married without having Mycroft run his fingers through everything first? God, Sherlock, at what point do I get some privacy from you?” He knew he was lashing out and he didn’t care.

 

Sherlock winced noticeably. He still had not turned back from the window. “I wouldn’t let you get married without knowing, that’s all. It’s your choice, but I can’t _not_ check, not with the kind of work you and I do.”

 

“No, you’d just jump off a ruddy building and let me think I’d seen my best friend _kill himself in front of me_ ,” he said, biting off the words bitterly. “But by all means, help yourself to my personal life.”

 

“I suppose the fact that something came up, that this brought to light some vitally important information means nothing,” Sherlock said lamely.

 

 John gritted his teeth and said nothing. Sherlock wasn’t wrong about that, but damned if he was going to admit it. Not right now. Not like this. “So,” he said tightly, “this is from Moriarty then, _not_ Mycroft?”

 

“From Moriarty and confirmed by Mycroft,” Sherlock said, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “I had asked Mycroft to do a background check on Mary last night. I do not know where the leak is, but I got this package prior to Mycroft’s goons finishing their research.”

 

John frowned thoughtfully. “That means Moriarty already had the information, if he sent it to you before Mycroft finished compiling it.”

 

Sherlock nodded and turned around, finally leaving the window. “Precisely. Perhaps Moriarty—or whatever is left of his network—had something in place already that was merely triggered by the search, but I cannot ignore the possibility of Mycroft’s network being compromised. It was his people who allegedly took care of Moriarty’s body, after all.”

 

“It might not have to do with Mycroft at all,” John pondered. “Perhaps it was the engagement itself that triggered it. I did post the news on my blog today.”

 

Sherlock grinned widely. “Excellent, John. That gives us something else to work with.”

 

There was a light knock on the frame of the open door. “Excuse me, sirs, but I have something I need to deliver to you,” said a dark-skinned man, dressed in body armor. One of Mycroft’s guards, no doubt.

 

Sherlock tensed and rushed forward, too slow to shield John from a sudden dart hitting him in the arm. He immediately felt the effects of a drug surging through his veins.

 

“Fuck,” was all he was able to mutter before the world around him blacked out.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone has a very bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never know how to do chapter summaries without giving away plot points. This chapter was interesting challenge to write. I kind of enjoyed(?) it for that reason.

Dark. And cold.

 

John shivered and pressed back down a little deeper inside himself. His head ached, and every sound throbbed echoes in his skull. He was vaguely aware that someone was talking—or singing?—nearby but the words meant nothing to him. _Burning._ What an odd thing to do to a heart. Far easier to simply cut it out, the surgeon in him thought. Whoever wished to _burn_ a heart out must be unerringly focused on the task and have significant reasons, John mused, impartial and detached. Burning would be impractical. Theatric.

 

            _Mary, Mary, quite contrary_

_How does your garden grow?_

_With sticks and stones to break my bones_

_Sing cuckolds in a row_

 

Singing again? He knew the voice, hated it.

 

The sound grew and washed over him, painful and insistent. His consciousness rose toward his surface and he no longer felt cold—no, there was a heat in his limbs. His ankles, his wrists, they were searing. Something was holding them down and with a cry his mind sprang up, dizzy from the drug but awake again, and he struggled viciously against his restraints.

 

“Easy there, doctor,” a cheerful voice told him. “I know the waking is hard.”

 

John blinked and tried to clear the fog from his eyes. He focused carefully on the world near him. He was tied to some kind of table or bed. The head of it was raised a little, like at a dentist's office, perhaps? Yes, something felt medical about all this. He glanced down himself and saw that he was covered in only a flimsy hospital gown. There was a thin rope bound so tightly around his wrists and ankles that it had started to cut into his flesh. Clearly, struggling was not an option. He relaxed slightly and looked around.

 

It was an abandoned factory, perhaps. Dark, dirty, cavernous. Sherlock could have deduced the make and model of the pipes and no doubt the relevance of the bacteria of the dank slime covering said pipes, but John and his pounding headache, it meant only that they were captured somewhere dirty without obvious means of escape. It was too dark for him to discern much else. The single light was above the hospital bed he was strapped to, and everything else was simply varying depths of shadows. No, not quite true, he realized as he squinted harder and blinked again. Someone was sitting on a chair, just outside the circle of light.

 

“Sherlock?” John asked hoarsely.

 

“Hello!” a cheerful face said happily, suddenly appearing over John—previously hidden from view behind him. The face was scarred heavily along one side, the result of damage from a gunshot. Botched suicide, or careful planning, John noted. The bullet would have been shot from a close angle in the mouth, taking out the majority of the flesh and jaw on that side of the face. The man would have needed extensive reconstructive surgery to recraft the shape of his face—needed metal plates inserted for both top and bottom jaw, hearing on that side would be compromised (if intact at all). Likely partial paralysis and numbness. The tissue and muscles would have been taken from the leg, perhaps, or a donation? A skilled surgeon, certainly, but further work was indicated. The left side of the man's face warped by the scars and stretched into a permanent sneer. He was a wreck, but even with the extensive damage and subsequent work, the man beneath it all was still unmistakable. Moriarty.

 

“You like the work I had done?” the scarred man quipped. He struck a pose to show off the marring of his face. “I think it's my good side. Sherlock likes it. He told me! And he has good taste,” Moriarty purred. “C'mon, don't be shy! Scoot closer!”

 

The man on the chair pulled his chair into the light. It was Sherlock. John was relieved to note that he didn't appear to be injured.

 

“Hey Sherlock,” John said, his voice dry and slightly cracking, but Sherlock smiled back anyway.

 

“Hello John,” he said softly.

 

“Excellent!” Moriarty said, clapping his hands.   He sauntered to the end of the bed and perched on the corner, winking at Sherlock. “Now that we're all here, let's have a little gossip. Wedding bells a-ringing for you, Mister Doctor? Or is that off now? Probably not. You’re not one to be put off by a little bit of murder are you now, mm?” Moriarty teased. He hopped off the bed to nudge Sherlock’s ribs with an elbow, like the two of them were in on a particularly good joke.

 

Sherlock grimaced slightly but said nothing. Moriarty waited for a response before seeming to get bored and turning back to John.

 

“You know, I’ve always wanted to play doctor,” he said, twirling a scalpel. “Don’t worry. It’ll just be a fun little experimental procedure. Nothing that will require anesthetic.” His smile perked up further. “I want to see if I can fix that tremor of yours,” Moriarty confided as he leaned over John. He flicked the edge of the hospital gown up, exposing John's shoulder and clucked his tongue. “Nasty, nasty. Well, scars aren’t so bad. I like mine. Gives you a sense of accomplishment, doesn’t it? Like a giant sign that says ‘Look what I survived!’ Let’s see if we can add to that,” he grinned. He traced John’s shoulder lightly with the scalpel. “Now, I’m not sure _exactly_ where all the nerves are, so you’ll have to tell me when I’ve found the right one. A little nick and we’ll cut that pesky thing loose, mm?” He pressed in deeper and John winced but said nothing. Abruptly, Moriarty laughed.

 

“Oh Sherlock, the look on your face! Don’t worry, no one’s dying. Today. And really, I barely cut him. He’ll need a Band-Aid, and then you can kiss it better,” he giggled. “Consider it a gift.” He glanced between the two of them with a smile, his gaze filled with something like amused fondness, and suddenly his grin spread to an enormous, beaming row of teeth.

 

“Oh, he didn’t know. Too precious! Is this my birthday?” Moriarty crowed. “Sherlock, I had no idea you liked dumb blondes.” He faintly traced John's lips with a finger. John had to suppress the strong urge to bite it. “Mmm. Such kissable lips. I can see it—the appeal I mean. But you know all about that, don't you, Sherry? I shouldn't get ahead of things. Sherry dear, I don't want to spoil it anymore than I have already. Go on then,” he said, making a vague gesture with the scalpel. “Confess. And be sweet. John's a gentleman.”

 

“What the hell are you going on about?” John growled.

 

“Sherry's _shy_ ,” Moriarty whispered loudly. “Just helping him along. His best friend just got engaged! It's almost the eleventh hour! Now, fess up, Sherlock. Here, I'll get you started: you're in love with your pet doctor and have been for years.”

 

John snorted. “I know you're a genius and all, but you're a little slow. Sherlock doesn't _do_ love. He barely does friends. I take it your emotional IQ hasn't hit the triple digits, then.”

 

Moriarty's sneer turned up. “You hear that, Sherry? Looks like I don't need to do anything. John's already done all the carving up by himself.” He walked to Sherlock and patted his shoulder in mock sympathy. “Don't take it too hard, darling. Men are brutes. Ask any woman.”

 

“Oh, come off it,” John said in exasperation. He turned to appeal to Sherlock to speak up already and stop the nonsense, but Sherlock's face stopped him. Sherlock wouldn't look at him. Odd. “Wait, are you serious? Sherlock, you're in love with me?” Sherlock's lip twitched slightly but he still didn't look at John. “Okay then. That's fine.” John looked back at Moriarty. “Weird use of time and kidnapping for a consulting criminal, kiddie gossip and crushes.”

 

Really? The best the great Moriarty could do was a confession of feelings? As potentially awkward as this could be for their dynamic, it was hardly an insurmountable problem. It’s not like it bothered him if Sherlock—or any man, or any woman—was in love with him. It didn’t change his view of them. _That’s because it’s not your heart that’s burning,_ something whispered. John began to study Sherlock more closely. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the man more guarded, more perfectly blank. He sucked in his breath. This was bad. This was really bad. It’s not that this was a random person confessing their potentially embarrassing feelings. It was _Sherlock_. Sherlock, who might as well have been an infant for all he understood about emotions and the intricacies of human relationships. Sherlock, who experienced the world on an infinitely magnified scale and had no experience to fall back on. In matters of the heart, he would be exposed, utterly defenseless, and John’s reaction to his friend’s torment was “So what?” God, he did not deserve that man.

 

“Look, Sherlock, I didn't mean it like that,” John tried. “I'm truly flattered, and—“

 

Moriarty bent in half laughing. “Oh please, don't mind me. You two carry on. I'll calm down, I promise,” he wheezed. “Oh god, it _must_ be my birthday.”

 

Right, okay, ignoring the madman as much as possible, John needed to think. Moriarty understood Sherlock on some deep, twisted level, and that meant Sherlock confessing his feelings was, in fact, torture. So, how to lessen the blow? Was it the vulnerability of confessing that was the problem, or was it John's response (ultimate rejection)? John had a couple of options. He could shrug off the matter and just yell at Moriarty over the threatened shoulder surgery. He could lie and say he was in love with Sherlock. He could reject him gently. He could act disgusted or uncomfortable with Sherlock's feelings. In light of the circumstances, these all seemed like potentially dangerous options. If only he knew which approach Sherlock preferred—falsehoods from John to protect Sherlock's privacy, or true kindness from a friend. The best he could think to do was just talk to him, talk him through it.   He was fairly good at knowing when Sherlock was lying, so perhaps he could get him talking and figure it out from there? Maybe he could get Sherlock to guide the conversation.

 

“Sherlock, is that really true?” he said. “Why didn't you ever tell me?”

 

Sherlock looked at him with eyes impossibly sad, a hurt smile on his lips. “You know that I’ve always found it extremely distasteful to state the obvious, John,” he said softly.

 

The words hit John like a blow to the gut. The obvious. The _obvious_. How the hell was this supposed to be obvious? Nothing Sherlock did ever spoke of “love” and he openly disdained sentiment and affection. He forgot John at crime scenes, ignored him for days on end, and lied constantly. Admittedly, John was the only person Sherlock put up with for any length of time, but tolerating someone hardly translated to _love_. They were friends. Best friends. Sherlock just didn’t understand the difference. And John didn’t think he could help Sherlock see that. It hurt his heart to think there was nothing he could do to explain Sherlock that his feelings were not a rejection. He licked his lips nervously and tried again.

 

“I love you, too, Sherlock. You’re my best friend,” John said gently. “I’m glad you love me, but there are many kinds of love, and I don’t think you’ve had enough experience to know the differences—“

 

Moriarty started laughing again and John ignored him.

 

“What I’m trying to say is, I don’t—“

 

“Please, John, I’m not an idiot. Don’t make me dissect this. I understand the difference between friendship and romantic attraction.”

 

“No, you _are_ a bloody idiot. Okay, you’re in love with me; that’s fine. But you’re a bloody great idiot about everything involving sentiment. So, if you say you’re in love with me, then oh fuck,” John realized suddenly that if _Sherlock_ admitted it, however much of an idiot he might be with feelings, that meant it was probably true, or close to true. Shit shit _shit_.

 

“Exactly why is it you doubt me? Do you think I am truly that cold?” Sherlock asked. He seemed entirely disinterested in the answer, which probably meant he was _very_ interested. Moriarty practically squirmed with suppress delight.

 

“Well, I mean, yes? You’re a lot more emotional than you give yourself credit for, but you don’t let yourself indulge in affection now, do you,” John explained. Why the hell was he arguing this? He was supposed to be _helping_ Sherlock right now.

 

“See, this is why you boys need Moriarty’s Matchmaking Service. You’re very welcome, by the way, so nice of you to say thank you. Now, let’s delve deeper, shall we?” Moriarty grinned. “Sherlock, darling, you’re being so cold. Liven up a little! Of course little Johnny won’t believe you when you’re so stiff. Tell him what you feel.”

 

“I’m in love with him,” Sherlock said stonily, with all the warmth of a robot.

 

“God, you’re boring,” Moriarty sighed. “Right, let’s get a better show.” He walked around the bed behind John, and John attempted to look over his shoulder and see what he was doing.

 

“He has a camera recording,” Sherlock explained.

 

“Yes! And I want a better performance, or I’ll need my stagehands to liven things up.” Moriarty snapped his fingers and half a dozen red dots danced over Sherlock and John momentarily.

 

“There, Johnny, you see what’s at stake.”

 

“I thought you said no one was dying today,” John replied numbly.

 

“Well, I expect you to perform, so of course no one is dying, dear boy,” Moriarty said. He brought a camera and tripod into view and set them up facing John this time. “I want to record your reactions, sweet thing. Plus we should get my artistry in the frame, shouldn’t we?” He took his position over John’s shoulder again. “Alright, lights and camera are done, now action!” he cried. He poised the scalpel meaningfully. “Tell the lad how you feel.”

 

“I love him.”

 

Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Yes, you’ve said that. I want the juicy details. I want to know what the Virgin wants. Tell us now, what do you think about when you touch yourself? What have you imagined doing to this body?”

 

“Nothing. There is nothing to imagine. John would find it distasteful,” Sherlock said calmly. He did not look at John’s face.

 

“ _Boring!_ And not true. You can do better. Use that big brain of yours,” Moriarty crooned.

 

“ …if I were to engage in…sexual congress with John—"

 

“TELL HIM NOT ME,” Moriarty screamed. He pressed the scalpel into John’s shoulder, prompting a startled cry.

 

Sherlock snapped his eyes to John’s. “If I were to have sex with you, I would have you take me from behind. That would be the closest to heterosexual intercourse I could provide you, and that way you would not need to look to me.”

 

Oh, god. “I would never do that, Sherlock. I would never take you without looking at you,” John said softly.

 

“What? That’s it? No blow jobs? I’d always thought you might be a selfish lover,” Moriarty sighed, “but I’d hope you’d at least have the decent to blow a guy, every now and then. I couldn’t even ask you for a handy? I think with _those_ fingers I’d be quick for you.” He sauntered up to Sherlock and took his hand admiringly. “Hmm, yes I think I’d be very quick for you.” He licked down a finger and then sucked it in his mouth. “Wonderful,” he murmured. He glanced back to John and laughed. “Oh my god, _look at his face_! Oh it’s too good, I need a picture!” He pranced back to John and produced a phone. “Smile, sweetie!” He snapped several selfies. “Hearts filter, don’t you think?” tapped a few buttons. “Mary will love it. I sent a her a few. You can get a copy from her later. Now, where we were, Sherry?”

 

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “I would suck on him—“

 

“TALK TO HIM NOT ME.”

 

Sherlock set his face determinedly. “John, I would take you in my mouth anywhere or time you wanted me to.”

 

“ And would you spit?”

 

“ John, I would swallow.”

 

“Progress at last,” Moriarty giggled happily, snapping a few shots of Sherlock’s face. “You’re such a dear, treating your lover so generously. You’d be a lucky man, Johnny boy. What do you say? Would you let Sherry give you a suck?”

 

John opened his mouth to say something, but words momentarily failed him. “Sherlock, I would, um, I would let—“

 

“Oh this is perfect,” Moriarty gushed as he snapped more shots. “You can actually see the second his heart breaks. That pause, Johnny, _that pause_.” He straightened up. “It seems you haven’t convinced him yet. Sherry, try harder. Romance the man! Impress him!” The scalpel danced along John’s shoulder. “Or am I asking too much of the Virgin? Tell you what,” he said, walking along the bed, “how about I demonstrate a few things, and you let me know what works for you.” He reached for the edge of John’s gown and began to pull it up. “No lube, sorry Johnny, but I’ll be gentle,” he said casually.

 

“How about I tell him what I like?” John interrupted. He was not about to let himself get raped by Mori-fucking-arty, and he sure as _hell_ wasn’t going to let that happen in front of Sherlock.

 

“That’ll work. For now,” Moriarty said, hopping onto the edge of the bed. He clasped his hands around his knees and looked on expectantly.

 

“Well,” John said, clearing his throat. “What I enjoy most is focusing on my partner, so lately with Mary that means she leads. Some bondage, which isn’t my style per se, but she does look fantastic in her outfits,” John said awkwardly. He found himself unable to look at Sherlock. “I do prefer to lead, I think, but—“

 

“You’re so vanilla, aren’t you?” Moriarty sighed in pity. He bounced off the bed again and walked to Sherlock. “I should have known. Dumb blonde and he’s boring in bed. Sorry Locky. You could do so much better.” He gave him a sympathetic shoulder squeeze and pulled out his phone again.  “Well, well, it seems Mary is making very good time! That’ll be my cue to head out now. Don’t worry though—I’ll be seeing you again soon!   There is a timeline, you know, for this sort of a thing. A procedure. Plant the seeds, water the sprouts, harvest the hearts. You kids have fun.” He snapped his fingers and a masked goon appeared to take the camera. Moriarty gave them a final, sneering grin, shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered off singing.

 

_Mary, Mary, quite contrary_

_What ever did I know?_

_I’ll hold my life and you your knife_

_And away my heart shall go!_

           

Sherlock waited, tense, until Moriarty left the room, and then he sprang to John. “Are you alright? How is your shoulder?” He grabbed the scalpel—Moriarty had tossed on the bed as he left—and examined John’s wrists.

 

“Might need stitches, might not. It doesn’t feel very deep,” John said. “More concerned about hands and ankles right now." They were swollen and deep red and the flesh around the restrains was angry and lightly weeping blood.

 

 Sherlock considered the wounds for a moment before using the scalpel to separate the restraints from the bed. “Perhaps we should wait for emergency services to remove the bounds. They’re tight enough that I don’t trust myself not to hurt you further. A scalpel is not the best option to cut this. It’s a very sturdy plastic,” he explained as he started on John’s ankles.

 

“Fine, fine,” John agreed. He tried to lift himself up by propping himself on his elbows but immediately collapsed, his shoulder giving way.

 

Sherlock immediately helped ease John to a sitting position.

 

“Thanks,” John mumbled. He cleared his throat and looked around the room. “Any idea how we get out of here, or are we just following Moriarty out?”

 

“There’s another option. I had begun to regain consciousness by the time we arrived.” Sherlock turned to offer John his back. “Get on, the exit is nearby.”

 

John thought about protesting as he doubted Sherlock could carry him, but he’d probably doubted Sherlock enough for one day. A bit of awkward scooting later and Sherlock was carrying him, piggyback style, out the door. Considering the recent confession, John couldn’t help being a bit embarrassed by the situation, given that the hospital gown could not accommodate John’s position and left his arse rather exposed. Hardly the priority of the moment, John chastised himself.

 

Once outside, Sherlock gently helped John sit down. John shivered in the cool air and without hesitation, Sherlock shrugged off his dressing gown and wrapped it around John. Somehow, that made John laugh. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

 

“Just your outfit,” John giggled. “We went through all that with me in a glorified sheet and you in your pajamas.”

 

Sherlock laughed a little too. “I lost my slippers,” he confessed. “I liked that pair.”

 

John looked around him a bit. They were outside an abandoned factory from the look of it. “No phone for either of us, then,” he sighed. “Sounds like we’re near a road. Maybe pop over and flag someone down?”

 

“Not necessary,” Sherlock said, standing up straighter. “Looks like Mary just joined us.”

 

Mary had indeed appeared, glancing cautiously around a corner and then, once she saw them, breaking out in a run toward them. “John!” she cried. “Oh god, what did he do to you?!”

 

“He’s got nothing on Afghanistan, no worries,” John said, sounding almost cheerful. “Fancy meeting you. No coppers? Did he tell you to come alone or where you planning to be a one woman show? I suppose that would be within your range of skills.” Mary froze and John continued blithely. “Yes, we got a look at you hit record.”

 

“Gift courtesy of Moriarty, not Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

 

Mary’s face crumbled into a sheet of pain. “John, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

 

John found he had nothing to say. He swallowed hard and looked away. The last few hours were a blur. He had no idea what to think or how he should feel, but seeing Mary in pain like that hurt him, too. He’d woken up that morning fully in love, planning to marry her. Now? Now the world was spinning backwards and who the hell knew what he was going to do about it.

 

“Do stop sniveling and call an ambulance,” Sherlock said stiffly. “I’m sure my brother’s lackeys will have followed you here, but the faster we get emergency services here, the better.”

 

Mary nodded and immediately began to dial. John sighed and hunkered further inside himself, wondering what bizarre turn his life would take next.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In one of the oldest versions of the "Mary, Mary" rhyme, it actually does say "Sing cuckolds in a row". Too interesting not to include! And I suppose John isn't a cuckold, but the main idea is that of lying woman, yes? So I kept the cuckold bit. 
> 
> ....this fic is WAY harder to write than my Pidgance stuff, but that makes its own kind of rewarding. And tiring. >_<


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Watson have a bit of a chat, and John loses his temper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've set this as chapter 3 of 8, but that's a wild guess at this point. Consider 6-10 chapters at this point. Gods above help me, I have no idea what I'm doing with this. XD Mysteries (even ones where I'm mostly just doing character dialogue/introspection/growth) are apparently crazy hard for me. Whatever. NEVER AGAIN.

There was absolutely no reason for John to go to the hospital, and for once in his life he was disappointed about it. He was able to be treated directly at the ambulance, and that meant he had no excuse to distance himself from Mary or Sherlock, which considering the last few hours would have been a welcome relief. Thankfully, the wrist and ankle bonds, once removed, proved to have been more painful than damaging. The swelling reduced almost immediately and after cleaning and bandaging, he was cleared. His shoulder did require two stitches for one of the wounds, but everything else was easily handled with steri-strips. For a bout with Moriarty, this tally of injuries was nothing. John felt mildly lucky. He also felt incredibly numb.

 

He could see Mary and Sherlock talking to one side and after a moment’s pause decided to wave them over. Bite the bullet, as it were.

 

“I am fit for release,” he said as they approached. Both of them dropped their shoulders slightly from easing tension. It was almost comical, their synchronization.

 

“Where would you like to go to?” Mary asked cautiously. “I…I want to talk to you, but I understand if you’re not up to that right now. And…I can leave the flat tonight if you’d prefer to be there alone.”

 

John shuddered at the idea of being in their once cherished flat, surrounded by reminders of a hundred tainted memories. “No thanks, I don’t intend to go back tonight.”

 

Mary swallowed a lump of emotion but nodded. “Where would you like to go?”

 

Baker Street. The thought was instant, but he pushed it aside. Sherlock might need space, so he wasn’t going to suggest it unless the other man did. He hoped Sherlock would take the hint, and perhaps he did and the answer was No. Either way he said nothing.

 

“Ah, Mary. How awkward to see you,” Mycroft said as he walked up. It was one of the few times in his life John had ever been happy to see the man. “And how are you doing, Dr. Watson?”

 

“Alive and intact,” John said. Close enough.

 

“Sherlock, I am heartily disappointed in you,” Mycroft said, ignoring John’s answer. Sherlock looked incised at this and John was equally angered. How dare Mycroft blame any of this on Sherlock! He nearly said as much but before he could interrupt Mycroft continued. “Still in your jammies at quarter to nine. I recall having suggested amending your appearance.”

 

“The day you merely _suggest_ anything, I will invite Mummy to stay at Baker Street for a month,” Sherlock said flatly.

 

John giggled in spite himself.

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Bold words. I have half a mind to take you up on that, but let us focus on more pressing matters for the nonce.” He turned to Mary. “Ms. Morstan, you shall be in my custody. Dr. Watson, you—“

 

“On what grounds?” Mary practically growled. “You’ve got nothing on me officially, and the last job I was on was for this country.”

 

“We’ll be holding you illegally then,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “I was intending this as a matter of your safety—“

 

“Hah!” Sherlock snorted.

 

“May I perhaps be permitted to finish a sentence?”

 

 John raised his hand. “If I might butt in?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “I would like to know if the Queen died.” Expressions turned startled at that. “No? You see, my knowledge of the Holmes family tree is sketchy, but I’m pretty sure you weren’t next in line, so why exactly are you making all the decisions? Because last I knew, I was doing a safe bit of doctoring until I was kidnapped, and then kidnapped again. Love it if that stopped happening,” John said mildly. “Just love it if I got a _little_ say in where I go.”

 

Mycroft blinked, Mary stuttered, Sherlock swallowed a laugh.

 

“My dear fellow, you appear to be in shock,” Mycroft began.

 

“Nope. Not shocked at all, because this is what my life is. And frankly, this is a fantastic time for a panic. Textbook perfect time for one. I’ve been strung up a madman, my fiancée is an assassin, and my best friend just had his heart gutted in front of me. Oh but you missed that bit, didn’t you? No matter. I’m just the arsehole who never fucking noticed. Sorry about that, by the way, and you can punch me later,” John added, turning to Sherlock. “And oh god, I head-butted you the first time I saw you again. No wait, that was warranted. I regret nothing. And I’m still mad at you about _that_ but not current things, and yes you can punch me,” he concluded, folding his arms and daring anyone to challenge him.

 

“Why would I want to punch you…?” Sherlock finally said, breaking the silence.

 

John took a deep breath. “Because!” he said with joyful mania, flinging his arms out and looking upward, like he was praising the heavens.

 

When John said nothing else, Mycroft cleared his throat. “Well then. Dr. Watson, I was hoping you would agree to stay at my residence. I already have significant security detail there, and setting up sufficient standards elsewhere would take some time. I assume you are wishing to retire shortly.”

 

“You have… guestrooms?” John said doubtfully.

 

Mycroft paled slightly. “I assure you I was not offering _my_ bedroom,” he said.

 

“Just surprised you have guests,” John said mildly.

 

Sherlock snickered.

 

“I do not,” Mycroft replied. He tapped his fingers on his umbrella in what John suspected was a nervous gesture to suppress the idea of _guests_ , or perhaps just people in general. “I do, however, have spare rooms. Sherlock, I _suggest_ you stay in one as well.”

 

“Nice try, but not falling for it,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms.

 

“Oh for the love of—He’s just winding you up, so say yes and let’s bloody well go,” John said with exasperation.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

Five hours later saw Sherlock absentmindedly pacing in one of Mycroft’s guestrooms. No cocaine. No cigarettes. No violin. He surmised this was Mycroft’s great scheme. Inviting John—ordering John—had simply been leverage to get Sherlock here, obviously. No great display of brother interference, no! Far simpler than that: a way to deprive of Sherlock of his habits. Damn him.

 

He reflexively clenched and unclenched his fists, stretching out his fingers and grinding his jaw. He needed something. He needed it. He needed his goddamn cocaine. He needed to _think_.

 

No. That was wrong. What he actually needed was not to think. For once in his life, he very much craved not being able to think at all, because this was a problem without any solution, and he already knew that. Mary, Moriarty—that was something else. It was the other thing. He refused to let his mind supply further details.

 

Depressants, not stimulants. That’s what he needed. Well, he was in the house of the British Government and all the stress that entailed. If Mycroft didn’t have a supply of sleeping pills, then who in the world would? At the least he would have cigarettes hidden somewhere. Destination in mind, Sherlock stalked off in search of Mycroft’s medicine cabinet.

 

A light on in the sitting room. Damn. Probably John, possibly Mycroft. Both options distasteful, though for vastly different reasons.

 

“You could just get drunk like a normal person. Or is that too boring?”

 

John then. Sherlock cautiously walked into the room. John was slouched in a plush leather chair, helping himself to strong liquor straight from the bottle. Mycroft’s people had supplied them both with clothes from home, and while Sherlock had failed to change John had ditched the hospital gown in favor of sleeping clothes. He stared at the ceiling.

 

 “I hid the sleeping pills,” he said without looking over to Sherlock and extended the bottle.

 

Sherlock walked to the offered bottle and sat in the chair across from John.

 

John shook his head. “I couldn't sleep. That's how I thought of them.” He tipped his head to look at Sherlock. “Drink or give it back,” he said petulantly.

 

Sherlock tipped back a swallow with a grimace and passed it back to John. He had never been a fan of hard liquor, but then he'd never been a fan of thinking _less_.

 

“It was a good guess of me. Of mine. Knew you'd want,” he waved a hand vaguely. “Want something. Knew you. Didn't know her though, did I?”

 

Sherlock studied John. Talking about her in the past tense, he noted, but the alcohol might be to blame.

 

John sat up suddenly. “So what was it? What did I miss? Well, other than the big thing,” he laughed mirthlessly. “But I should've seen something, yeah? Lived with you for years and didn't learn a damn thing.”

 

“You couldn't have known,” Sherlock said quietly. “Someone like her...she's practiced in hiding that.” He hesitated and then said, “I should have known. I'm sorry.”

 

“Not everything in the damn world is your fault, Sherlock.”

 

No, just this.

 

“Shut up.”

 

Sherlock looked up, startled. Had he said that out loud?

 

“I can feel you blaming yourself and it's annoying. It is my fault for not noticing. Because you know what? I was the one who knew her, who lived with her, who,” his voice choked off. “Christ,” he whispered. “How fucked is it that I'm not...I still want...” He took a long swig of liquid and didn't finish his thought.

 

“I should have known,” Sherlock repeated softly. “You weren't limping. I should have known.”

 

 John laughed again. “I thought I healed. I thought I fucking healed, Sherlock! With Mary. I thought I was well again because I was happy with her, excited just to settle down and _live_. But I was wrong. She was just another version of you.”

 

Sherlock was deeply offended but said nothing.   Mary might be an accomplished assassin and skilled liar, but that hardly qualified her to be a different Sherlock.

 

“She was smart, she made me laugh, she...she made not _hate_ being alive,” John said.

 

Oh. Well that was a better association.

 

“Sometimes, I still wish I'd died in the war,” John said. He shook his head sadly and took another swallow. “I'm no fucking good out here.”

 

“Is that how you felt, when you thought I died?” Sherlock asked.

 

John studied him a moment. “See, that right there? That's why I hit you. You don't get it. You don't _get_ what you dying did to me. You broke my heart, Sherlock. When you died and when you came back again. You broke my heart.” He took a deep gulp of liquor. “And that,” he said, passing the bottle back, “is why you can punch me.”

 

Sherlock took the bottle. He frowned. “I didn't mean to break your heart, John.”

 

“And I didn't mean to break yours,” John replied.

 

Sherlock flinched and looked down. He swallowed a mouthful of liquor and handed the bottle back, just to have something to do with his hands. “You didn't.”

 

“Yes I did. And I'm sorry.”

 

Sherlock's jaw clenched and he found he was flexing his fingers again. “Don't apologize.”

 

Neither man said anything for a long time. A clock ticked out the time and occasionally the bottle sloshed liquid when John took a swallow, but otherwise the room was quiet.

 

“I didn’t really mean it. That you’re cold,” John said, breaking the silence.

 

“Yes I am. I don’t consider it a weakness, if that’s what you mean, but I am cold. I know people are supposed to… _care_ more, when people die. But caring doesn’t help. It’s something that can be exploited.”

 

“Okay, yes you’re cold,” John said with a faint smile, “but I didn’t mean it like that. You might not be Mother Theresa, but you do care about things and about people. You don’t let yourself show it, though. I get that. But why didn’t you think _I’d_ care that you died? Have I just not been good at showing you you’re my friend?”

 

That startled Sherlock. “Of course I thought you’d care, John. I heard you, when you visited my grave. You wanted one more miracle. I thought you’d be happy when you got it.” He studied John’s face. He was thinking through the information, but looked more hurt than anything else.

 

“That’s why you were joking around, then? Talking about my mustache?”

 

“It was a horrible mustache, John.”

 

“Sherlock, I swear to god—“

 

“We used to laugh a lot, you and I,” Sherlock said, cutting off John’s annoyance. “I don’t do that much, with other people. But we laughed a lot, and I thought seeing me would make you laugh again.” At that John looked truly pained, which was distressing. “It was important that you hated me, John. The more you hated me, the safer you were. I thought I’d finished dismantling Moriarty’s network, so when I came back I thought it was okay again. To laugh. I was happy to see you,” he finished lamely. “And I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

 

John raised his hand. “It’s okay. I think I get it now.” He pulled in a trembling breath and sighed. He took another long pull from the bottle before smiling slightly. “I am happy, for my miracle. Thank you.”

 

Stiffness eased out of Sherlock in a rush. “You’re welcome,” he said. He hadn’t realized it, but he’d resented John for not understanding before. Sherlock had been _right_ , after all, but perhaps it wasn’t fair for John to see that, or at least not right away. Perhaps it had to do with how someone can be right but not kind…? These things confused him. But if John understood, if John’s hurt was eased and John forgave, that was what mattered. But that was all for before Moriarty returned—for old wounds, not new. And if Moriarty was still around, then what had that all been for?

 

“It was all true,” Sherlock said suddenly. He had no idea why he felt compelled to confess. Maybe the liquor. “What I said earlier.”

 

“No it wasn't,” John said as he stared down the bottle. He seemed vaguely annoyed that it was empty, like he wasn't the one who'd downed the contents.

 

That hurt. He did not want to argue this out with John again. He'd already had enough of that with Moriarty present.

 

“Anywhere? Anytime?” John continued. He turned an impassive face to look at Sherlock. “There's no way you'd blow me in front of Mummy.”

 

There was a moment of silence as the two men stared at each other.

 

“I said anywhere or time _you_ wanted, if you recall. Do pay attention. I find it highly disturbing you'd want me to blow you in front of my mother,” Sherlock replied with twitching lips, attempting to keep solemn.

 

They burst out laughing in unison. The tension evaporated immediately and fear Sherlock hadn't realized he'd been holding in his shoulders disappeared. They laughed until John was doubled over and Sherlock slid to the floor.

 

“Right then,” John said as he wiped tears from the corners of his eyes.   “I am going to pretend I'm not about to have a raging hangover and sleep in one of Mycroft's... _guest_ rooms.”

 

They giggled again over the idea of Mycroft having guests.

 

John pushed himself off his chair and rose unsteadily. “Good night, Sherlock,” he said with a gesture that might have been a salute. He started to wobble out of the room and then abruptly turned. “Let me tell you something, Sherlock Holmes: of course you can masturbate to thoughts of me, you great bloody idiot. How many times have you saved my life now? I think you’ve earned it. And if you can’t wank off to me because you don’t think I’d enjoy whatever scenario you’re thinking of, use that giant brain and _imagine_ I’d like it. Idiot.”

 

John padded off, leaving Sherlock alone. He ran a hand through his curls and roughed them into a mess. So that was that. His answer. Not that Sherlock had actually asked anything…. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes against a sharp tide of memories.

 

John, extraordinary from the start. _That was amazing._ John, confronting Irene Adler. _I’m not gay!_    His confusion at her response, but no denial. _I am. And yet here we both are._ John, cruel in his kindness. _Imagine I’d like it._ John, a weakness that even Molly spotted easily. _You look sad when you think he can’t see you._ John. _I’d never take you without looking at you_.

 

Hope. John gave him hope when he desperately needed rejection.

 

Moriarty had miscalculated. He could never burn Sherlock's heart out—John already had, a hundred times over.

 

Sherlock curled in on himself and fell asleep on the floor, and if he cried it was nobody’s business but his own.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

John was exceptionally surprised the next morning to find Mary at the kitchen table. She had been engaged in conversation with Mycroft and the two looked up as he entered.

 

“Good morning, John,” Mycroft said and John nodded.

 

“Good morning,” Mary said softly. He noted Mary had a wistful look on her face and turned to the refrigerator before he could bring himself to say anything.

 

“Alright if I help myself?” he asked.   He rummaged about and started gathering things without waiting for confirmation (Mycroft gave it anyway).

 

John soon seated himself at the table and began in on his small meal of toast and an orange. He wasn't in the mood to try for anything more substantial.

 

“How are you injuries this morning?” Mary said.

 

John paused, finding it harder than he'd expected to say even small phrases. “Better,” he said. He wasn't trying to be petty. He really wasn't. He just couldn't stomach talking to her. Not yet.

 

“I'll have someone change your bandages after breakfast,” Mycroft said.

 

“Sherlock can do it,” John said automatically. He kicked himself mentally. Sherlock might not want to—he'd spent most of their time last night whining about his own problems, assuming that Sherlock wouldn't be up to talk about his own. Well, perhaps that was why. Perhaps he was just too over-whelmed to care more. It was a bit of a blur at this point, and his hangover wasn't helping. “Where is Sherlock?” he asked.

 

“Cuddling with a bottle of whiskey I'd received as a present from a particularly grateful statesman. I'd been saving it for a worthy occasion, but I suppose recovering from Moriarty lends one certain leeway with liquor privileges,” Mycroft said mildly.

 

John winced slightly. He'd picked the bottle at random. Best let Mycroft think the blame was on Sherlock's shoulders. “Should someone wake him?”

 

“I think not. That he managed to sleep at all is a surprise, so best leave him to it—even if it means his back will pay for it,” Mycroft said, shaking his head. “He's on the floor, if you can imagine. That boy barely sleeps, and then when he does....” He shook his head again.

 

On the floor? The idea of Sherlock not even bothering to go to bed last night somehow made John feel guilty. He should have known Sherlock wouldn't even take care of himself to that extent.

 

“I better put some water and paracetamol in reach then,” he said, getting up slowly from the table.

 

“Some for yourself as well, I assume?” Mycroft said knowingly. “I'd like my sleep aids back when you find the time—it was a good thought to raid my medicine cabinet, though. I am grateful.”

 

John nodded. “It was a good idea to have him here, not Baker Street,” he said. He frowned. “Did you stay here last night?”

 

“Neither of us did,” Mycroft said, gesturing to Mary with his head. “We've been having a bit of a talk. I'd like you and Sherlock to join us once you're more...put together,” he decided on judiciously.

 

John went back to his bed room and shrugged off his pajamas before changing into a pair of clothes Anthea had brought over. He'd given himself a clumsy sponge bath the night before and briefly considered another but determined he couldn't be bothered. He retrieved the missing contents of Mycroft's medicine cabinet and walked back to the kitchen, depositing them on the counter, grabbing a glass of water, and heading to the study he'd left Sherlock in the night before.

 

Sherlock was curled in a ball, the empty bottle clutched tightly against him. Something about the vulnerability of the moment made John feel like he was intruding. He padded over quietly and set the glass and pain killer in easy reach and then looked around for a throw to drape over him.

 

“Don't bother,” Sherlock groaned, untangling his limbs. He blinked blearily and groped for the pill and water, managing eventually to swallow them.

 

“Sorry, didn't mean to wake you,” John said.

 

“Nnh,” the detective replied.

 

“Mary and Mycroft are in the kitchen, talking.”

 

“Plotting,” Sherlock muttered and John snorted.

 

“I can tell them you're still asleep if you like.”

 

Sherlock rolled his shoulders and stretched a bit before getting up. “How is your shoulder?” he asked.

 

“Better than my head,” John said, rubbing his temple. “Whiskey was a bad idea. That bottle in particular, I gather. Mycroft had been saving it, apparently.”

 

“You couldn't have picked a more perfect phrase to brighten my morning,” Sherlock said. He scooped the bottle off the floor and kissed it, making John giggle. “Is he angry?”

 

“Sorry, no, he seems to be in a forgiving mood. If you want to avoid him for a bit, you could help with my bandages,” John said.

 

Sherlock shrugged and followed John back to his room. John brought the extra bandages he had gotten from whichever of Mycroft's minions had packed his bag (probably Anthea again, poor girl—there was no way she was paid enough) and began to undo his used ones.

 

“Let me,” Sherlock said, gently pushing John's hands aside.

 

John surrendered, glad not use his hands for anything dexterous yet. He watched as Sherlock's long fingers nimbly undid the dressings and wondered for a moment if this was how Sherlock would undo his clothes and immediately wished he could slap himself. Where the _hell_ had thought come from him? Sherlock glanced up and John had a wild fear that he knew what John had been thinking.

 

“Does it hurt?” he asked. John realized he'd been holding his breath and let it out.

 

“It's fine,” he said quickly. Sherlock searched his face a moment before seeming satisfied and returning to the bandages.

 

Goddamn Moriarty, putting thoughts in his head. All that about Sherlock’s quick fingers, or however he’d put it.

 

Sherlock tugged lightly at the hem of John’s jumper. “Need this off to look at your shoulder.”

 

“Right,” John said, pulling off his top. He and Sherlock had patched each other up dozens of times over the years and it had never been awkward—until now, of course. He couldn’t help feeling a little self conscious as Sherlock leaned closer to remove the bandage from his shoulder and inspect the wound. Goddamn Moriarty, making even this tiny interaction uncomfortable!

 

“It bothers you,” Sherlock observed. “Me touching you.” He cleaned the wound and replaced the plaster. “Still bleeding slightly, but it looks clean,” he added.

 

John cringed, annoyed that he was that obvious. Well, everything was obvious to Sherlock, generally speaking, but still—he was embarrassed that Sherlock had noticed.

 

“It bothers me that it might bother you,” John said. “I’m sure I’ll be normal about it all in a few days. It’s just that with the Mary thing…I’m on edge,” he explained. It was true. It sounded true, anyway, but John wasn’t sure which way was up anymore, to be honest. “Unless you want me to change something…?”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sherlock said, kneeling to begin work on John’s ankles. “And you don’t need to change.”

 

“Right then,” John nodded. He pulled his jumper back on. “If you ever do want to talk, or if I ever do anything that you don’t like, let me know though, okay?”

 

Sherlock made a grunt of acknowledge and started on the second ankle. “Are you leaving Mary?” he asked.

 

John sighed. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.” He ran his hands over his face. “Do you think I should leave her?”

 

“You don’t limp,” he said simply.

 

“Goddamn it, Sherlock, that’s no reason to marry someone!” John said in exasperation but with a hint of amusement.

 

Sherlock finished bandaging the ankle and settled back on his heals. “I don’t know how to gauge happiness, John. All I can do is observe. If it turns out she doesn’t have any ill-intent toward you—and for whatever it counts, at the moment I don’t believe she does—then the rest is up to you to figure out.”

 

Of course Sherlock would put it in terms of happiness and not betrayal or moral obligation or who knows what other complications John would have thought of. What matters is: can he still be happy with Mary, and can she be happy with him? He had no idea.

 

“Well, ta for that. I’ll see you at the Round Table with Mycroft and Mary in a bit, then? Might want to change your clothes before he pitches a fit, though. Or don’t,” John added with a smile. “Either way.”

 

Sherlock made a noncommittal grunt and rose from the floor. They parted ways at the door and John mentally steadied himself to face the music. With a deep breath, he headed back to the kitchen to Mycroft, Mary, and whatever fresh hell life had to offer.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mostly have this sorted for how I want it to end. I usually have an easier time figuring out how to get there and it's been frustrating. >_< I watched some Graham Norton episodes recently and seeing various stars be not so nice about fans (or rather, fics or fanart) put a pretty big damper on me. I know a lot of stars disagree with fan theories and stuff (or are majorly creeped out, lol), but somehow it was a letdown. Fans LOVE these stories, and well, these stories wouldn't exist if there weren't fans!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which more discussions are had, and Sherlock is offended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is kinda short. I've been working piecemeal on random parts of this whole thing because that is My Process, lol. I write the bits I know and then slowly fill in. So, faster updates in the future maybe? 'Cause I already got some stuff done? Also, I had no Internet for four days and it was awful.
> 
> Sorry for grammar and spelling errors and American-attempting-British-slang nonsense. ;^;

Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen some 20 minutes later, freshly showered and now dressed in a different set of pajamas. Mycroft winced visibly and John scowled with affectionate amusement. Sherlock’s eyes flickered to John and his lips twitched into the tiniest smile that vanished into a mask of seriousness as he sat down.

 

“Thank you for gracing us with your presence, brother mine,” Mycroft said, clearly omitting to remark on Sherlock’s state of dress only through great effort. John coughed back a laugh which Mycroft ignored. “We’ve been reviewing the data Anthea compiled for us and believe we have pinpointed the leak and the agents responsible for Moriarty’s resurrection.” He handed a file to Sherlock who flipped through it briefly.

 

“All conveniently dead,” he noted.

 

Mycroft nodded. “Which is why we believe the announcement of the engagement on Dr. Watson’s blog is what prompted Moriarty to make his most recent move.”

 

“What’s most concerning is that he either had an exact replica or an original of this,” Mary said, holding up a thumb drive with the letters A.G.R.A. written on the side.

 

Sherlock took the drive and frowned as he looked it over. “This is not the one I received yesterday—slight differences in the scratches on the side.”

 

“Precisely,” Mary said. “That drive is mine. This one,” she said, holding up a second drive, “is the one you received from Moriarty yesterday.”

 

“Completely identical in contents,” Mycroft noted.

 

“We each had one—the members of A.G.R.A.—as an insurance policy. It was the record of everything each of us had done. It was our security. None of us could betray the others because we all held equal data. But we were a family,” she added sadly. “I never thought we’d need to use it.”

 

“And you think someone used their drive?” Sherlock asked. He settled back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

 

“No, I believe that when the Georgian Embassy mission went south, someone found the drive on the body of one of my teammates,” Mary said.

 

“Georgian Embassy, eh?” John said bitterly. “Sounds like you have a lot of backstory I’ve not been privy to, but no matter. Not the time for that discussion.”

 

Sherlock leaned forward. “No, it is the time for this discussion. Tell us about the mission. How did it go wrong?”

 

“We were to free the Embassy from a hostile takeover. The targets survived, but someone knew we were coming. Our exit was ambushed, and my fellow A.G.R.A. members were killed. I tried to determine how we were betrayed, but after searching as long as I dared, I gave up and used the opportunity to restart in England with a clean slate.”

 

“So, the hired help died but not the key players? Convenient for somebody,” John noted. “Someone shirking on paying the bill? I imagine her lot didn’t come cheap,” John asked Mycroft, indicating Mary with a jerk of his head.

 

“That is worth considering—who would benefit from A.G.R.A.’s demise. I’ll have Anthea research the financial transactions,” Mycroft said, typing notes.

 

“Which brings us to question why Moriarty got involved. I found nothing during my time tackling his network to connect him to Georgia. The timeline of events points to him already having the thumb drive on hand when John posted the announcement of his engagement, so why did he have this information to begin with and why wait until now to use it? Who wanted Moriarty to have the drive?” Sherlock mused.

 

“Perhaps he was interest in A.G.R.A. prior to the Embassy incident and just took advantage?” John said. “The drive might have been a useful souvenir.”

 

“More likely one of his clients was interested,” Sherlock said. He turned to Mary. “Are there any enemies you or your fellow team members might have made?”

 

Mary shrugged helplessly. “Too many to count. We were involved in a wide range of…projects. We worked with dozens of countries and organizations—but nothing stands out immediately as someone we had a _problem_ with. And, if this was a matter of revenge, why take it out on A.G.R.A.? Why not go after who hired us?”

 

Sherlock’s fingers tapped excitedly. “Revenge. Excellent point. Revenge is personal. A.G.R.A. isn’t specifically tied to one country or entity, so this wouldn’t be a protest against a government or the like. Anyone wanting to dismantle A.G.R.A. would have _personal_ investment of some kind. We’re looking for someone who would either benefit from the fall of A.G.R.A. or who had a vendetta against one or more members of the team, possibly consulting with Moriarty to do so,” Sherlock concluded, frowning. Clearly, he was displeased with how little he could narrow this down.

 

“So,” John said, “the question becomes: why did Moriarty want to use this against myself and Sherlock? Why not just against Mary?”

 

“Two birds, one stone?” Mycroft said with raised eyebrows. “I hold with the theory that the dissolution of A.G.R.A. had nothing to do with Moriarty’s current plans. If he had the drive already as a souvenir, that would be ample ammunition to use against you, dear brother.”

 

John frowned at that. “But this isn’t like the other times Moriarty’s gone after Sherlock. There’s nothing at stake, no other people involved, no one else is going to die, no little mysteries and clues to send him after. This is too simple and dull for him.”

 

“So what does he want?” Mary asked.

 

 _To burn a heart out_ , John thought to himself. “He referred to our capture as part of a timeline. Maybe he doesn’t want anything right now. Maybe this is just his way of saying hello? You’re back and he’s still here; something like that,” John added to Sherlock.

 

“Dominos,” he said simply. John raised his eyebrows and said nothing, waiting for the detective to continue. “Taking out Mary takes out John takes out me. The fall of A.G.R.A. is the mystery he wants us to solve.”

 

Murmurs of agreement rose around the table.

 

“I need data,” Sherlock growled suddenly, tugging at his hair. “Mary review the information on the thumb drive—refresh your memory on whatever enemies A.G.R.A. might’ve made. Mycroft, I want the summary of those financial transactions and everything you can get me on the Georgian incident. John—“

 

“Shall go to work,” John interrupted.

 

Sherlock glanced over in surprise. “Work? Moriarty’s reappeared, you were kidnapped yesterday—“

 

“Twice,” John agreed, shooting a meaningful look at Mycroft who was entirely unoffended. “And yes, all of this is crazy, but no one needs me here for research at the moment, and I am on the schedule at the office. It doesn’t look like Moriarty will be making another move in the immediate future. He’d give you a timeframe if he was—he loves his countdowns.”

 

“A bit of a drama queen,” Mycroft agreed.

 

( _Unlike present company_ , John thought again but stayed silent.)

 

“I’ll arrange your ride,” Mycroft continued. He typed out the request and then looked up at John with a patient smile. “It’s the least I can do after _kidnapping_ you yesterday. And you, brother mine? Are you wanting transportation as well?”

 

“I’ll share with John,” Sherlock said. “I’ll be at Baker Street later.”

 

“I’ve had the premises scoured of illicit substances already, if that changes your plans,” Mycroft added meaningfully.

 

Sherlock waved a hand airily. “I simply wish to not be…here,” he said, settling on a rather judicious word, all considered.

 

“Very well,” Mycroft nodded. “Be ready in ten. Ample time to dress yourself, I trust,” he said a pointed look.

 

“Oh please, Mycroft. He went to Buckingham in a sheet—I think we can all agree this is a step up,” John huffed. He rose from the table to go fetch his things from the guestroom. Mary followed and caught his sleeve.

 

“John?” she asked quietly. “Are you…will you be ready to talk tonight? Or are you…” she couldn’t finish the sentence.

 

John sighed. “Yes, we can talk tonight. I’ll…I’ll text you where. I don’t intend to go back to your flat today, but we can figure out a place.”

 

She nodded. He could tell she was fighting tears. “Are you leaving me?” she asked, her voice the faintest whisper.

 

John’s heart ached and his stomach clenched. He felt nauseous. Two days ago, the question would have been unthinkable. Even now he wanted to crush her to his chest and kiss her tears away, whispering fervent assurances until her smile returned. He loved her. God, he loved her. But somehow, he just couldn’t bring himself to touch her.

 

“I don’t know, Mary,” he said sadly. “We’ll talk tonight.”

 

Mary nodded and backed away. Further down the hall, John heard a door click shut softly. Sherlock had heard. Well, it wasn’t anything he didn’t know already. That he _had_ listened was sad, somehow. Nothing to do now but head forward. With that, he straightened his shoulders and set out to face the rest of the day.

 

 

~*~*~

           

 

“I’m taking you with me to get tested,” John told Sherlock as they got in the car.

 

“For…?” Sherlock asked cautiously. A great number of people had wished to test Sherlock for a great number of things in his lifetime and very rarely had he found it necessary or interesting to comply.

 

“HIV, among other things.”

 

Unexpected, and hurtful. “I know you put a great deal of importance on ‘correcting’ your sexuality when questioned, but I had not expected you to be homophobic in regards to the need for testing. I assure that any activity I have ever undertaken in that category was entirely safe, consensual, and well-tested,” Sherlock replied bitterly.

 

John looked tremendously taken aback. “Oh, god no, Sherlock. I meant you need testing—we both do—because we just got stabbed yesterday. Do you know how many times I’ve been stabbed with needles since I met you? Nine. Nine times. I honestly can’t believe I didn’t think of testing sooner.”

 

“Ah,” Sherlock said, embarrassed. “I may have…jumped to conclusions. I apologize.”

 

“Not enough data?” John asked with a quirked eyebrow.

 

No, just an over-sensitive arsehole who somehow expected the worst of his friend. John was sympathetic, kind, and devoid of prejudice. Why _did_ he assume that reaction from John? Curious. Disturbing. Did he want to hurt John because John had rejected him? What a miserable thing, to love. He hardly needed the additional vices.

 

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the car door and looked out the window. John let the matter drop without pressing further.

 

“You know,” John said several minutes later, breaking the silence, “if I were to insist on you getting tested for HIV, it would be because of your drug use, right? You use clean needles at home, but you haven’t always used at home, have you.”

 

“I was tested during rehab,” Sherlock replied. Mycroft had been thorough.   Only the very best (private, discrete) treatment for his little brother (family black sheep).

 

John sighed.

 

 _Yes John, I’m a disappointment and a failure and have used since rehab and yes, who knows what my stash might have been laced with and I’m risking my brilliant mind_ —but Sherlock said none of these things. He didn’t have to.

 

“You know it’s still the first day, right? It’ll get better. We’ll stop being idiots,” John said. He was looking out the window and Sherlock could not read his face well from that angle, but he could hear the gentle certainty of John’s words.

 

Kind John, always expecting _better_ —a better future, a better Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever be the kind of “better” person John wanted, but for John he’d try. No matter how many times he’d failed John, he never doubted that Sherlock _could_ be better.   Even when he was disappointed in Sherlock, he still believed in him. Sometimes the expectation was a weight—a daunting task, the notion that Sherlock could learn to navigate the strange paths of “normal” human interactions—but mostly it was hope. John soothed his sharp edges without muzzling him. John guided but never held him back.

 

For John he’d take the damn tests.

 

For John he’d try.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

John was extremely grateful that Sherlock had meekly submitted to testing—or as meekly as Sherlock submitted to anything, which is to say he complained loudly but acquiesced, the prat. Work was a blessed distraction, and by the end he felt somewhat refreshed (even though his ankles and wrists were hurting and he would kill for a real shower). After finishing up his last patient, John sat in his office and failed to do his paperwork as he pondered what to do next. He needed to talk to Mary, of course, but where? He couldn’t think of private, neutral territory. Perhaps he should just speak to her at their— _her_ —flat. Anthea had only packed for a short stay, so he needed to grab some things anyway. Resigning himself to an exhausting evening, John texted Mary and headed to the flat.

 

By the time John had finished showering and changing his bandages, he could hear Mary moving about the flat, making dinner. The shear domesticity of it all left a bitter taste, but he swallowed it down and headed to the kitchen.

 

John was a romantic—less in the candles-and-roses way and more in the 1800s-idyllic-and-sublime-tropes sort of way—and sitting down to a home-cooked meal made by the woman he loved stirred a sad nostalgia. By tacit agreement, they spoke on only mundane and neutral topics until the plates were cleared and washed. Though muted by current circumstances, it was a pleasant echo of former evenings, and John found himself reluctant to bring up the night’s true subject. They sat back down at the table, and John fiddled awkwardly with the hem of his jumper and attempted several sentences with no progress.

 

“We don’t need to talk tonight if you aren’t ready, John,” Mary said gently.

 

John shook his head firmly. “No, we need to talk. There’s just too many places to start from and frankly it’s overwhelming, so I guess let’s start with: is there anything you’ve told me that _is_ true?” He sounded bitter. He _was_ bitter, but he’d hope to be more level-headed. _It’s still just the first day_ , he reminded himself.

 

“I borrowed my backstory, but everything else is true. I hate bran muffins and love strawberries. My favorite color is lilac. I love trashy TV. And I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Mary said, her eyes but unwavering.

 

“And the thumb drive? All the things with you and A.G.R.A.?” John said. He knew the answer already, but he needed it confirmed by her nonetheless.

 

“All true. Everything you saw on that drive was true,” she said. God, she was lovely. Sad eyes, honest face, lying heart. How the hell was he still in love when even looking at her hurt him to the core?

 

“Look, I know this isn’t first date material, but when were you planning to tell me? Before the wedding? After our first child? Were you just going to bolt in the night? These details are kind of important, Mary!” John said, his anger rising.

 

“I took good care of my records—even Mycroft’s people wouldn’t have found anything if it weren’t for Moriarty and that drive. I truly thought I was free, John, and that you were safe.”

 

“Safe?! Who cares if I was safe! I was hardly safe with Sherlock, now was I, and I ran around London with him for years! I don’t give a shit about my safety, Mary—I invaded Afghanistan for Christ’s sake! What I do care about is trust and honesty. I thought we were equal partners, Mary. You’ve read my blog and I’ve told you about my adventures so you know what I’ve seen and what I’m capable of—was your past really something you couldn’t trust me with? Why, Mary? Why didn’t you tell me?"

 

“Because I didn’t think you would love me anymore.”

 

Oh.

 

And that was what did it—what finally made John cry. It wasn’t a wailing, sobbing kind of cry. It was simply wetness spilling freely down his face, too voluminous to merely be “tears”. He wanted to tell her she was wrong. He’d been in the army; he’d killed people. She wasn’t the only one with a tainted record. But his words died before they reached his tongue because she _didn’t get it_. It wasn’t that she had a past; it was that she didn’t trust him enough to love her anyway. “Wow. Um, okay,” he said, swallowing. “So, were you planning to ever tell me at all?”

 

Mary was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I wanted to. I really did, John. I was such a coward. The thought of losing you is—“ her voice failed her and she turned away, pulling in deep breaths before continuing. “In the end, I lost you anyway.”

 

They were silent for a long time. Mary got up and brought back a box of tissues which they awkwardly shared. Once he was more composed, John spoke again.

 

“I was going to propose to you, the night Sherlock came back. I was already so nervous and on edge and then he burst in like everything was a joke and it tore my heart. But you found it funny. Why were you on his side? I wanted to scream my lungs out and beat him bloody but you just said 'I like him'. What the hell was that, Mary?” John said. Part of him wondered if somehow Mary was in on it—like everything about the past two years had been part of a cosmic prank meant to humiliate and gut him. He was wallowing in self-pity (and he knew it), but damned if he didn’t deserve a good wallow.

 

“You talked about so much, you know,” Mary said, something wistful in her voice. “It was obvious how much he meant to you, and when I met him, he was so _exactly_ like you described. I felt like I was being introduced to somehow I already knew, and I was so happy for you that he was going to be back in your life. I guess knew he was important to you, and I knew you wanted to forgive him.”

 

“Not right then I didn't. Not right then I sure as hell didn't. God, Mary, that night was a complete hell for me, and you were on _his_ side. That was,” John swallowed hard again. “That was hard on me, Mary.”

 

“I realize that now,” she said, honestly contrite. “I should have put it all together sooner, but that was when you started having nightmares again. That wasn’t just because of him, was it?”

 

John shook his head. His world was shaken when Sherlock died. It shook again when he came back—and Mary did not hold him up. Maybe it was a result of the time she’d spent with A.G.R.A. Maybe she hadn’t been in a normal relationship (and around normal people) for so long she didn’t know how to be a real partner. But didn’t that make it worse? She’d trusted her team members more than her financee’. She didn’t view him as her equal.

 

Mary seemed to sense what was going on in his head. “You forgave Sherlock,” she whispered. He could see it in her whole being: she was begging him not to reject her.

 

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t forgive you,” John said. “I just don’t know yet if I _can_.” _Or if I want to_ , his mind supplied. But he knew.

 

He couldn’t marry her.

 

They had never been partners.

 

John tried to pull his thoughts together. He should tell her. It would be cruel, wouldn’t it, to leave her with hope? But it had only been one day, he reminded himself. It was only fair to her—and himself—that he take more time. He squared up.

 

“Mary,” he said, “I think we should—“ he was interrupted by the sound of a text notification and glanced at it out of habit.

 

**Come to Baker Street. Needful updates. – SH**

 

Incredible timing, John mused. Sherlock had a fantastic talent for interrupting. The phone dinged a second time.

 

**Please inform Mary. I do not have her number. – SH**

 

John snorted. Of course Sherlock didn’t have her number. He had John, Mycroft, and Lestrade in his mobile. Perhaps Molly. He shook his head.

 

“Sherlock?” Mary asked.

 

“Sherlock,” John confirmed. “He wants us all to meet at Baker Street.” He stood up. “Let’s focus on the case for now, okay? I need to think about…us…when I’m less distracted. Is that okay?”

 

Mary nodded, obviously relieved he had not already shut her out. “Alright then,” she said. “Let’s go solve a mystery.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who else thought Mary was a total bitch to John in that first episode? She was even making fun of him when he was clearly trying to tell her something important (propose). Urgh. I kinda liked her in the second episode, though. And then it all went to hell!
> 
> Next chapter will have some actual action. Yay!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock loses his temper at Mary, John loses his at Mycroft, and Moriarty taxes everyone's data plans with pictures and poetry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. I had computer trouble and then I got sick. Yay me! Also, I really thought there was going to be more action this chapter. My bad. I'm tired of the yelling at each other. >_< Too many arguments and angsty thoughts!
> 
> Don't worry too much about Sherlock and the Greek definitions. He's an unreliable narrator.

There were a number of things to occupy Sherlock’s mind. The case had many facets and, god help him, _feelings_ involved, and there was the matter of Moriarty’s revival and the now extremely messy situation with Mary. Naturally, Sherlock elected to think about none of these things. He thought instead about John, and how perhaps John had been right to think that Sherlock didn’t love him.

 

Sherlock was a sociopath and by definition that put limitations on feelings, however high functioning he might be. “Different kinds of love”, wasn’t that John put it? Painful. Sherlock could never love John the way John loved someone else. It simply wasn’t in him. But it was a very real definition of love from Sherlock’s point of view (and no doubt, from Moriarty’s). The shared sociopath’s terms and definitions of Affection? There was something Biblical about it all. How many times had they been willing to die for each other? “Greater love hath no man this” and all that. Sherlock wasn’t much for either Testament, but he could appreciate some apt phrases.

 

The problem, Sherlock reflected for neither the first nor final time, was with the inadequacy of the English language. Not only did it have the audacity to be a Germanic language retro-fitted and beaten into submission with a Latin-based grammatical structure, but people consistently used the connotative rather than the denotative definition of words. Atrocious. The ancient Greeks had done far better with four words for love. Eros and philia applied, certainly. Storge, probably. Not agape—even Sherlock’s ego would not put him in the same category as the divine. He was, unfortunately, fallible. Occasionally. Perhaps John had expected the sub-category of platonic eros…? He did seem to consider Sherlock to be at least partially asexual (there may have been some truth to that, but he had ample evidence that John was an exception). Sherlock suspected that the difficulty arose from John believing he was connecting a sexual desire to philia love, but if romantic love did not of necessity combine the two than he was truly at a loss for the meaning of the term.

 

 _I desire you sexually as well as in our current state of relationship and would want this to be a mutually exclusive arrangement_. Surely even John would understand if he said _that_.

 

And wasn’t that the deeper problem, really? John not understanding? He’d grown used to and thus dependent on John _understanding_ him. John might not be clever, and he might fail to observe a great many things, but he had a nigh endless ability to understand the emotional consequences and nuances of damn near everybody. It was immensely useful (and perhaps a little comforting).

 

It was all pointless. He hated it when John did not understand him, but ultimately, the result was the same. John did not love Sherlock the way Sherlock loved John.

 

And he never would.

 

He could discuss all of these things with John without hurting or being hurt, but he knew that John was the wrong type of kind. He would try to comfort Sherlock, and that was intolerable. Because, in a very small and very, very deep part of Sherlock, that would make him _hope_ , hope that even though John would never love him back in equal terms, John _might_ let Sherlock love him the way he wanted, and hope was the foulest poison he’d ever known.

 

Hope truly did burn his heart out.

 

A sound at the door brought him out of his ponderings. John with his key. Mary on the steps behind him. They came together, then. Interesting. A glance at their faces told him what he had expected: both had cried, not fully separated, definitely not reunited but somewhat amicable as they had managed to share a cab—no, a car curtesy of Mycroft—but John was weak with women and would likely have shared one regardless. A sign of his “politeness”.

 

And for one brief flash, Sherlock loathed Mary. The weariness on John’s face, the hunch of his shoulders—it was her aftermath. She’d hurt him in places Sherlock did not have the privilege even to see, much less access.  She’d broken something precious. He had, too, but the difference with Mary was she’d been not just a friend but a lover and a comforter. John craved romantic partners, always looking to replace ones he’d lost. They were vital to him. She’d been his succor and then broken the trust of the most loyal man Sherlock had ever met. A vicious and selfish coward. And that was what love did to people: it turned them heinous.

 

Despicable.

 

If Sherlock’s heart was ever fully burned beyond revival, he would thank the culprit for a kindness served. John was essential, irreplaceable. Valuing John was an act as natural as breathing. _Loving_ John was unutterably vile, an unforgivable treason of Sherlock’s better intentions. It created an exploitable weakness in Sherlock and it caused him to harm a man he was loathe to hurt and so was damaging to both parties.

 

John’s eyes met Sherlock’s with a tired glance, and then he looked at Sherlock’s outfit and smirked. Sherlock turned his face to avoid chuckling too loudly, pleased to brighten his friend’s mood: he had changed into fresh pajamas and a new dressing gown, just to annoy Mycroft and make John smile. A successful endeavor on both accounts, it turned out, as before Mary and John could fully seat themselves Mycroft appeared at the door and frowned deeply. He composed himself and sat down and might have said made a comment of protest had his phone not chimed a text alert. He barely skimmed it before pocketing his mobile. Interesting, and alarming.

 

“Shall we review our updates? I have little to add on my end. Anthea discovered that the payment that was to be sent to A.G.R.A. reverted back to its original fund. Knowing the secretary of finance in charge of that department as I do, I can assure you that is a dead end. The man has the ambition and backbone of a snail,” Mycroft said.

 

“The pinnacle embodiment of the British Government, then?” Sherlock asked, face innocently blank. Mycroft did not rise to the barb but John giggled. Success.

 

“Nothing on my end, either,” Mary said, clearly frustrated. “I reviewed everything on the drive and had a look through Mycroft’s peoples’ information. Nothing links together. All the embassy information we were given matches what his people had. It had to have been from outside, but I have no leads.”

 

“Well, lovely chat,” John said, standing up. “Delightful to see you all, but maybe next time just a video call, mm?”

 

“Not to worry, John. Unlike our compatriots, I have managed to find something useful,” Sherlock said, pulling something up on his laptop.

 

“Confirming dead ends _is_ useful, brother mine,” Mycroft reprimanded.

 

(“Not useful enough to just be a phone call, apparently,” John muttered.)

 

Sherlock found the clip he was looking for and spun his computer around to show the others. Mary gasped.

 

“Ajath,” she cried. “That’s Ajath! He survived!”

 

It was the dark-skinned man from the day before that had kidnapped John and Sherlock and had assisted Moriarty. John swore under his breath and Mycroft frowned, watching the feed several times before noting that Ajath had taken out all the guards by himself using nonlethal means. Obvious, of course, but possibly Mycroft’s way of comforting Mary, who was increasingly distressed.

 

“This makes no sense. He survived! Why the hell would he be working for Moriarty?!” Mary raged. “A.G.R.A. would never have taken on Moriarty as a client. There is something else going on here.”

 

“A.G.R.A. no longer exists,” Sherlock pointed out, “so one can dismiss what the _organization_ would do and focus on the man.”

 

“It wasn’t Ajath,” Mary said, stubbornly crossing her arms. “Whatever happened that day at the Embassy, it wasn’t due to any of us. I’d stake my life on it.”

 

“Would you stake John’s?” he asked sharply.

 

Mary lifted her chin and stared him straight in the eyes. “Yes,” she said.

 

Sherlock searched her face for a moment but was satisfied with her answer. He nodded acquiescence but continued with “And would you risk his life that Ajath is your ally _now_?”

 

(“A very important distinction!” John agreed loudly.)

 

Mary shook her head. “I don’t know what has happened to him, but Moriarty either has a hold on him somehow or gave him bad information. We were a _family_ ,” she emphasized again.

 

“Statistically, the average human is more likely to be murdered by a family member than by anyone else,” Sherlock said. He glanced at the various expressions that popped up at this statement and turned to John. “Not good?” he asked.

 

“A bit,” John said. “But also possibly a good point. I know a thing or two about family fights, as I’m sure the two of you do.” He gestured between Sherlock and Mycroft.

 

“Well, we haven’t fallen so far yet as to reach familicide,” Mycroft said charitably. “Cousin Bertam’s last birthday celebration was rather pushing it, though, as I recall.” His phone chimed another alert which he ignored.

 

“Did you need to get that?” John asked.

 

“I am as aware as I need to be of the contents,” Mycroft replied with a wave of his hand, dismissing further commentary. Sherlock read all he needed to in Mycroft’s face to confirm his answer and suppressed a grimace. At least John’s ignorance meant the messages weren’t going to him as well—yet. He ought to compare his texts to Mycroft’s (and, he noted from Mary’s expression, Mary’s as well) to see if there was a pattern or underlining message, but this was a conversation best had without John.

 

“Well then,” Mycroft said, rising from his chair, “this has been a mildly enlightening discussion. I’ll see what can be found regarding Ajath’s whereabouts for the last few years, but we had best not hold out much hope on that end. More recent CCTV feeds will, of course, be helpful, but with Mary’s ability to disappear, I suspect Ajath’s history will be absent as well. I’ll send you some information,” he added to Sherlock.

 

"Via video call?” Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow.

 

Mycroft smiled placidly. “Via text,” he replied, which answered the question of the nature of the pending discussion. Sherlock was marginally grateful to Mycroft for his discretion in front of John. He would have been more gratified had it not been for his (highly accurate) suspicion that Mycroft simply did not wish to bother with the “nuisance” of John’s presence for what would be an embarrassing talk. He turned to John.

 

“Dr. Watson, if you are finished here, might I have a word?” he said.

 

 John looked around. “That was it then?” he said, glancing between Mary and Sherlock, who shrugged. He shuffled a bit awkwardly, a little unsure now that the meeting had ended so abruptly. “Keep me informed, I guess. Goodnight all.”

 

He and Mycroft walked down the stairs and were gone.

 

Sherlock settled back in his chair, drumming his fingers together as he sank into thought. His descent was interrupted by a mirthless and tired laugh from Mary. She ran her hands through her hair and stared at the ground in front of her feet, miserable.

 

“It’s my fault. Thinking I could be happy, that I could make _him_ happy. You must hate me. I certainly deserve it. Tell me, is there anything I can do now to keep him safe?”

 

Sherlock studied her over. Honesty, at least about this. “It would be hypocritical of me to hate you, Mary. We share same the weakness.”

 

Mary winced a painful smile. “You know, he talked about you so much before you came back. I wondered if you were in love with him, but I never asked him. I didn’t think he’d want to consider that, especially since you tried to convince him that everything about you was a lie. That’s what hurt him the most, I think. He thought you didn’t believe in _him_ as a person or a friend, because you thought it was possible he could ever doubt you. That’s how I hurt him anyway,” she added, eyes gathering a hint of tears. “I thought he wouldn’t love me and it’s killing him.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He could see the truth in what Mary was saying, but it disgusted him that she was putting him in the same category as herself. As John’s lover, she meant more to John than he ever could, and how dare she barter shared pain for his sympathy.

 

Mary smeared a tear out of her eye and chuckled derisively. “Sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to discuss your John like this.”

 

“He ceased to be my John the moment I decided to fall from that roof, because I gave him up,” Sherlock said coldly, a barely suppressed snarl lurking in his voice. “I wouldn’t curse him with the hope I would return when I couldn’t guarantee I’d survive my hunt for Moriarty’s men. And what about you? Did you even have a plan in place to let him know what happened to you, or were you just going to bolt into the night whenever your past caught up to you? At least I had the decency to _die_. He _knew_ about my danger; you knew yours would catch up with you, and yet you never warned him. So do I know how you can keep John safe? Stay the hell away from him. I don’t want to hear you say _one word_ about how much you care about his safety.”

 

Mary looked stunned. “I thought you said it would be hypocritical to hate me,” she finally said, though not with anger.

 

“It would, but I also hate myself. I think we’re done here,” he said dismissively. If Mary said anything else before she left he didn’t hear it.

 

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

John was with Mycroft in the back of his car, headed who-knows-where. He’d stopped bothering to ask that sort of thing where transportation was concerned.   

 

“Well?” he said, breaking the silence and opening the conversation. “You wanted a word.”

 

Mycroft smiled good-naturedly. “I am a very wealthy man, John. Do you know why that is? I have a tidy enough salary provided me by the government, of course, but the Holmes family estate is the true bread and butter.”

 

John said nothing but gave a meaningful sigh of _Do tell me what you want already; I’m tired_.

 

“I’m sure you’ve noticed my brother’s blasé faire attitude toward finance, but have you considered why that is? He has limited access to his trust fund, naturally, due to his unfortunate history of drug use, but I promise you he is still thoroughly comfortable in his means.” Mycroft waited patiently for a response before nodding to himself and continuing. “My brother made a very fine choice to bestow his affections on—you are a very dense man indeed, Dr. Watson, but I wonder if that comes naturally to you or if you flex your prowess only where my brother is concerned.”

 

“Right then. Say your piece or lay off,” John said crossly, folding his arms. “I’ve had enough.”

 

Mycroft leaned forward suddenly. “What precise delusion led you to think that a man like my brother possibly needed to split the rent.”

 

And that did startle John.  "I thought he needed to split rent because he said he did," he said slowly.

 

Mycroft waved his hand dismissively.  "I've heard the details.  Stamford misconstrues a comment my brother made about no one wanting to be his flatmate, and then you wander in.  My brother takes one look at you and decides to take advantage of the fortuitous opening.  And you, dear doctor, are blind enough to take this at face value.  You really were a marvelously brilliant selection--so persistently ignorant that my brother could pour out his meager heart and never worry about rejection, because you would never be aware enough to reject him in the first place.  But now," Mycroft said, his voice growing darker, "you're aware."

 

John bristled.  "The first day he met me, he told me he needed a flatmate and that he was married to his work.  I made it clear I was straight.  That was the basis of our arrangement, incalculable amounts of teasing aside, and we knew exact how we stood."

 

"And if this were still the first day--or week, or month--of your arrangement, I'd agree with you.  It's been years, Dr. Watson.  Did you honestly never suspect?  Think, man.  Have you ever known Sherlock to willingly spend more than half an hour in another human's presence?  He looks for your guidance regarding his interactions with others.  He seeks out your approval and praise.  He tries because of you.  He fights his addictions because he knows that's what you'd want him to do.  He never gave a damn about quitting cocaine until you arrived, I can promise you that.  It's always and only you."

 

It wasn't fair, the amount Mycroft was trying to lay at his feet.  What was John supposed to have said or done differently? What could Mycroft possibly want him to do about this now?

 

Mycroft seemed to guess John’s train of thought and sighed. “It’s not as if I didn’t see this coming immediately, and Sherlock has not had a weakness of true sentiment since Redbeard.”

 

“That’s not true!” John growled fiercely. “Why does everyone try to pretend that I’m the only person Sherlock cares about?! He loves Mrs. Hudson, he loves Molly, he loves Lestrade, and he even loves you, you insufferable idiot, though I begin to question why. I might not have realized he was _in_ love with me, but I never once questioned that he cared about me, as much as he is able to. And you know what else? It’s not just _my_ approval seeks. God, you Holmes' are unbearable. Pull your head out of your arse, Mycroft, and admit you feel ‘sentiment’ for your brother; idiocy doesn’t suit you.”

 

At this Mycroft smiled. “I’m incredibly fond of my brother, John. I love him very much. It would only harm him if I tried to tell him that, though. My brother suffered a great deal emotionally as a child. There are certain words and phrases that trigger him, and from time to time I employ them to mark his progress. It’s not to torment him, I assure you.”

 

“My god,” John breathed, his voice low in awe. “Far be it from you to ever _ask_ him how he’s doing.”

 

“And you think he would tell me?” Mycroft asked pointedly. “I work with the tools available.”

 

“And I’m one of those tools, is that it?” John practically roared. “I already told you I wouldn’t spy for you—why the hell would I work with you on this? I don’t know what you think I should do to break or heal his heart, but it’s none of your damn business. Sherlock is a grown man. Leave him alone. Driver!” he cried, tapping on the privacy screen, “this is my stop.”

 

The car pulled over and John wrenched the door open.

 

“Do you want me to call you another car, or do you want to handle this as a grown man?” Mycroft called out behind him. “No taxis here.”

 

John said nothing and slammed the door. He would gladly walk half of London just to get out of Mycroft’s presence. Dark thoughts swarmed around him as he fumed and began to stalk away from the car. It sped away smoothly. Good. He shoved his hands angrily in his coat pockets. It was a cool evening, getting colder by the moment, but he barely noticed. If anything, it felt good to have the air nip against his skin. It suited his mood.

 

Sick of it. He was utterly sick of it. Mary, Moriarty, Mycroft, and everything that had happened in the past 48 hours. Scratch that—the last two years. He’d been gut sick and heart sore since the day he heard his friend’s head crack open on the pavement and he’d never gotten over it. Maybe he never would. A groan rose up from somewhere in his middle and he hunched over, nauseous. It didn’t matter. The reasons he jumped or left or came back—it didn’t matter because _he’d died_. He’d died and he hadn’t taken John with him.

 

He thought of the desert and a hundred wounded men he’d saved and a hundred wounded men he hadn’t and how none of that had touched him the way the ice of Sherlock’s blood on the pavement had. The desert had left him with nightmares. The blood had left him with nothing at all.

 

John vaguely wondered if he should call his therapist.

 

It did not particularly surprise him to realize he was standing in front of the familiar knocker at Baker Street. He had no idea how long it had taken him to get there, but his body it seemed had made the decision for him and he hobbled inside and the up the stairs without trying to overthink it.

 

The fire was warm in the hearth and Sherlock was sprawled over his chair, limbs dangly every which way. He didn’t move except to dart his eyes to John and something in his expression softened. John couldn’t help but smile in response.

 

“I know I am a horrible man, but you should stop crying.”

 

It took John half a heartbeat to realize that 1) he wasn’t crying and 2) Sherlock was talking into his phone, propped up on his far shoulder and balanced against his ear. Sherlock clearly read John’s confusion and then subsequent revelation and his eyes twinkled impishly.

 

“I am a paragon of cruelty and it would behoove you not to forgive me.” A slight pause, and then: “Do you need to hear the magic words again? Hello? Hello??” He turned to John and shrugged a little but grinned wide. “Lost the connection,” he said.

 

John smiled back. “Who was that?”

 

“George,” Sherlock yawned.

 

“You mean Lestrade? That was _Lestrade_ just now, crying on the phone?” John asked in disbelief.

 

“Technically Molly. It seems I have been an arse and should have told her sooner that I was still alive, etc, and she was worried enough to go to George’s office, and then he called me and put her on the line,” Sherlock said. He yawned through a stretch and then added with a small frown “Not George?”

 

“Greg,” John corrected, smiling. At least he’d considered he might be wrong about the man’s name. He cleared his throat and then shuffled awkwardly in the doorway. “Can I spend the night?”

 

Sherlock tilted his head. “Your things are still in your room.” It was not a question—he was pointing out evidence.

 

“I don’t pay rent anymore,” John replied lamely. _And apparently never needed to_. “It seemed like I should ask.” Sherlock arched an eyebrow but shrugged and John continued. “I can move my things out later, if you like. I didn’t before, because after the Fall… Well, it was hard to be here,” he finished. Mrs. Hudson hadn’t been eager to go through anything or rent to someone new, so it had been easy to just keep putting it off.

 

Sherlock stood up from his chair. “Your bandages need changing,” he said, looking at John’s ankles. “I know Mycroft is annoying but you might have at least hailed yourself a cab.” He pointed to the couch and John sat down while Sherlock fetched the first aid kit.

 

“Hadn’t realized they were hurting,” John said as he began to unwind the bandages. They were soaked red with blood and now that he was paying attention, he realized they were throbbing with a deep and harsh pain. “Bit of an idiot like that,” John muttered to himself.

 

Sherlock reappeared with the kit and knelt next to John, helping with the last of the bandages before cleaning the wounds and binding them up again. “Doctors make bad patients,” Sherlock observed and John flopped back on the couch.

 

“Still a mile better than you,” he said with a smile and Sherlock huffed with mock offense. Sherlock’s phone chimed a text alert but he ignored it and left to put the kit away. The phone chimed two more times by the time Sherlock got back.

 

“Your phone is busy tonight,” John commented.

 

“Moriarty’s making a scrapbook,” Sherlock replied, his arms full of blankets and a pillow (complete with ridiculously high thread count pillowcase). “I presume you don’t wish to limp upstairs tonight. Couch sufficient?”

 

“Cheers, ta,” John said gratefully and made himself comfortable. Sherlock, for his part, turned on the TV and then sat down in front of the couch, leaning his back against it. Soon enough he became agitated with the television and began to snap corrections at it. John smiled and found himself laughing a little at Sherlock’s comments. It was nice. It felt like home.

 

And suddenly, John was seized by loneliness. He ached, thinking of nights cuddled up with Mary and he felt desperately, desperately empty. He missed her, missed holding her. He had no one to hold now, he realized. His mother was dead, Mary was as good as gone, and he was still on the outs with Harry (not that he fancied a cuddle with his sister, but a hug might be nice). Perhaps he could hug Mrs. Hudson in the morning, provided she had fully forgiven him for not calling after the Fall. The need to touch and be touched was such a deep part of human comfort, he reflected, and damn if he didn’t need comfort right now. He wondered how the Holmes brothers managed it with their isolated existences, thumbing their noses at sentiment and emotions but, John was quite certain, craving it all the same.

 

John sighed, easing tension out of his body and forcing himself to relax a little. In doing so, his hand sagged and accidentally brushed against Sherlock’s neck.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, pulling away. He shifted position to move his arms when a hand silently appeared over Sherlock’s shoulder, palm up. Was he offering to hold John’s hand? No, John realized. He wasn’t offering: he was _asking_. John had no idea what Sherlock wanted or hoped for with the gesture. Was it merely an offer of comfort or sympathy, or was it something more? No matter the reason, John was certain it had taken tremendous effort and bravery on Sherlock’s part. And, since a lonely heart is a weak one, John curled his hand over Sherlock’s.

 

The detective said nothing. He breathed out something like a sigh, and if it was not altogether happy it was at least not altogether sad.

 

The two men sat like that for several hours, Sherlock still occasionally correcting the television and John still chuckling quietly. Sherlock’s phone buzzed with texts from time to time but neither of them mentioned it.

 

Eventually, John fell asleep. Sherlock sat in front of the couch until late in the night, his thumb slowly caressing John’s hand. John woke only once, and it was not from a nightmare: he was still on the couch, alone again, and there was a violin playing a sad song, softly, in Sherlock’s room. He fell asleep without thinking what that might mean, reflecting only that the earlier position of their hands must have been uncomfortable, and that he was glad Sherlock hadn’t let go.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

 Sherlock had not slept at all. However, it was such a common occurrence for him to go without sleep that it did not occur to him there might be any particular reason behind it. Regardless, he did not put the time to waste and poured again over the data from Mycroft. He eventually gave in to his phone’s incessant messages and looked through his texts. All of them were from Moriarty’s video of him and John. Still frames with heart filters, gifs and reaction memes, and eventually links to memorabilia merchandise. The links were to a generic site that would print upload photographs onto mugs, shirts, pillows, and the like. He forwarded the link to Mycroft in case there was anything to learn from the site itself (and because he knew that as uncomfortable as the pictures made him, it was 100 times worse for Mycroft—seeing his “baby brother” and all—not that he was petty). He also pickpocketed John to take a quick glance through his phone in search of Moriarty texts and was relieved that it was clean. He slipped back into his bedroom until he heard John stir, wake, and eventually go downstairs. He wasn’t feeling shy, precisely, but he hung back anyway. Upon leaving his bedroom, he naturally went to eavesdrop.

 

“I know you and Mary are having a bit of a domestic, John, but you know better than to come break his heart again,” Mrs. Hudson scolded. “Not after the history you boys have.”

 

John made a half-hearted attempt to correct her before agreeing to be more careful in the future and thanking her for breakfast. He excused himself, saying he needed to head home to shower and change before work, and on the way to the door paused and asked for a hug. Sherlock smiled to himself. John had just guaranteed himself a spot in Mrs. Hudson’s good graces. If John was weak to women, it was nothing compared to how Hudders was weak to her two boys. John found himself subject to multiple hugs and a bit of happy crying before he was able to leave.

 

Sherlock waited until John had closed the front door before picking up his violin. He sank into thought through the music and was absorbed for well over an hour before the dinging of his phone brought him out of it. He didn’t fancy looking at more of Moriarty’s handiwork, but it might be important information, or from someone else entirely. He picked up the phone.

 

**Why aren’t you answering my texts?** **L Don’t you like my pictures~? Do you like poetry better?**

 

**Mary, Mary, quite contrary**

****Please hurry, dearie, tick tock!** **

**Before next dawn you better to save John**

**Unless you fancy Sherlock**

 

His phone dinged again with a second message: two photographs, one of John walking into his work—clearly taken this morning—with a target imposed over his face and one of Moriarty, a finger pressed to his scowling smile with an impish wink.

 

“Unless you fancy Sherlock,” he murmured. This verse was written for someone else; he was just getting a copy of it.

 

Sherlock immediately went to his bedroom and began to change his clothes. If it was a matter of trading lives, it would be his own without question, and he should not face death without his Belstaff, he thought with grim humor. Ready in less than a minute, he strode out the front door and looked for a taxi. A muffled shot rang out and he stilled, swaying slightly before falling on his back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys held haaaands. Lewd, I know. Should I have put a NSFW warning up? 
> 
> Did ya notice that Sherlock gave John his own bedding? What a sweetie. If you asked him he'd just say it's 'cause his bed was closer, but we know better, don't we. *wink wink*
> 
> Sorry what is probably an insane amount of typos. I only did a super quick skim through but I'll go back and fix 'em more later. 
> 
> Guess what though! I've been working way too much on part two of this, which is my smutty follow up, because I appear to be incapable of leaving smut alone. Oops? So this one might take a bit longer, but part two will be quick, lol!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock does very little and John does a whole lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bigger chapter than usual, and next one will be shorter. Oops? Still seemed like the best place to make the break, though, so oh well. 
> 
> Trigger warning for mention of suicidal ideation.

If someone had asked John, he would have been unable to tell them how exactly he made it to the hospital. He wasn't even sure who had called to tell them that Sherlock had been shot. One minute he'd been at work, the next he was mindlessly pacing a hall, painfully aware that his best friend was lying on the other side of the wall, hours into surgery. Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson had all been by, but Mycroft had turned them away after promising news when he had it. John was rarely grateful to Mycroft, but he certainly was now. At last an exhausted surgeon joined them in the hall.

 

Sherlock had died on the table. He'd come back, amazingly only after they had ceased restoration efforts. He was stable now and they were taking him to a secure room, guarded by Mycroft's men. The entire wing was going to be cleared of anyone but screened staff as soon as they could make room to move the other patients.

 

While waiting to be allowed into Sherlock's room, John and Mycroft slumped in adjacent chairs and held ignored cups of hospital coffee.

 

“It was Mary, wasn't it,” John said at last, the first thing either of them had said in hours. “If it were Moriarty's people you would have already said something.”

 

Mycroft sighed wearily. “Yes. We had a positive ID from the security footage. God knows why she did it, but yes. Do you have any idea what they said to each last night after we left?”

 

 John shook his head. “He didn't say anything to me about it. He was getting a lot of texts from Moriarty, though.”

 

Mycroft nodded. “As was I, and Mary too I believe. Pictures from your recent capture,” he said, his mouth curling in distaste. “I suspect he didn't send them to you as a way of bothering Sherlock, making _him_ be the one to show them to you.”

 

“Did you learn anything from his phone?”

 

“Haven't gotten the damn thing unlocked yet,” Mycroft sighed again. “Give it time.” He gave John a side glance before clearing his throat. “I owe you an apology. My behavior last evening was inexcusable. I tasked with you undeserved frustration. That was wrong of me.”

 

John was surprised at the humility of the older Holmes. An apology from either brother was a rare thing indeed. He was touched. “I can see how I missed a lot of signs,” he conceded. “I’m at a loss at what I might have done differently.”

 

“Rejected him,” Mycroft supplied, but without hard feeling.

 

“He’s not a school girl,” John said wryly. “It’s not a crush, and I don’t think Sherlock can separate part of a rejection from the rest of it, or at any rate not easily, and there are no circumstances under which I’d stop being his friend. So, who knows? I think everything would be about the same.”

 

Mycroft consider this and then nodded.

 

Long minutes stretched by before a nurse walked over quietly. “He's settled now. You may come in if you like.” John and Mycroft rose from their chairs but she held up her hand apologetically to John. “Family only,” she said gently.

 

“He is family,” Mycroft replied.

 

John could almost have kissed the man.

 

The ward Sherlock was in was now cleared of other patients and the entire place had a ghostly, empty feeling. John had always thrived on creating order out of chaos, especially during his medical training when every second required intense focus and precise. A silent hospital, with all the sterile smells and florescent lights was intensely uncomfortable. It was its own brand of death.

 

Sherlock was pale on his bed, practically blending in to the starch-white sheets, his dark curls a sharp contrast. His breath was slow and uneven, as if despite his morphine and near coma he was in pain. John scanned his vitals despite the machines opted to check his pulse manually. Weak. Half-remembered lyrics came unbidden into his mind: _Each descending peak on the LCD took you a littler farther away from me… And I knew that you were a truth I would rather lose than to have never lain beside at all… love is watching someone die_.

 

“It’s bad, isn’t it,” Mycroft said softly. “Do you need a minute alone?”

 

John looked at him, grateful. He found it hard to speak around the lump in his throat and had to swallow several times, eventually giving up on words and just nodding. Mycroft stepped tactfully out of the room and discreetly shut the door.

 

John stood at the bedside, unable to do anything but hold Sherlock’s hand as he struggled to speak. Tears trembled in his eyes but didn’t fall as he took in a deep breath.

 

“I don’t know if you can hear me, Sherlock, but I’m right here, okay? You told me before you don’t know how to gauge happiness. Well, I don’t know, either, but I do know I can’t have it without you. I asked you once for a miracle. Did I already use it up? You weren’t dead then, so please don’t die now. Please, Sherlock. For me. Please,” John said as his voice cracked. The tears did fall now and he stopped to smear them away angrily. “I’m going to go now. I have something I need to do, but I’ll be back soon, okay? Mycroft’s going to come in, and I know you think he’s terrible but he really isn’t as bad as you think. Why don’t you wake up, just to piss him off? I know you’d like that.” He chuckled and smeared another tear away. “I’ll…I’ll be back soon. Please wake up.” He hesitated for a moment before leaning forward to brush a curl off Sherlock’s forehead and then planted a quick kiss.

 

“I’ll be back,” he promised again, and left the room. “I’ll be back,” he repeated, this time to Mycroft as he walked by quickly, turning his face away to hide the evidence of tears (as if he could possibly hide anything from a Holmes).

 

Rounding the next corner of the hallway, John nearly narrowly avoided knocking over Anthea, who was carrying a garment bag and duffel and—as usual—typing furiously away at her Blackberry.

 

“Ah, sorry about that,” John said. “Clothes for Mycroft? Did you want any help with that?” He gestured at the bags.

 

Anthea smiled her placid smile and simply said, “No.”

 

“It means a lot, you know. I’m sure this kind of thing isn’t in your job description, but he relies on you. He’s probably a shit boss, but well…he needs the help,” John said. He was feeling particularly warm toward Mycroft at the moment, and considering he was fleeing the scene, he was glad that at least _someone_ was there for Mycroft. Perhaps Sherlock’s parents would come, he reflected.

 

She raised her eyebrows in surprise, possibly at the praise, possibly at how obvious the sentiment was. “My job description is to aid Mr. Holmes in whatever way he sees fit,” she said.

 

“Ah. Right,” John said awkwardly. “Remind me not to cross you,” he added. She’d probably helped arrange an assassination or two. It was easy to forget how much power Mycroft wielded sometimes when he’d born witness to the man’s fear of Mummy and attending plays. _Fearless in the face of death, powerless in the face of mothers_ , he thought ruefully. He realized suddenly he’d been standing, staring at Anthea, for what was probably far longer than socially acceptable.

 

“Carry on then,” he said and scurried away. He had his own important business to attend to and the Holmes brothers would have to fend for themselves.

 

 

~*~*~

 

It was a very nice morning for a murder, John reflected as he sat on the wooden park bench. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed while waiting to see Sherlock until he’d left the hospital an hour or so earlier and discovered that the sun was rising. He hadn’t slept much in the past three days—hadn’t each much either, come to think of it—but he found himself fully alert as he watched the quiet morning begin to unfold. Due on the grass, fresh scents of plants in the air, no clouds. That sort of thing. A little chilly though, he realized, as a slight breeze caused him to tuck his coat a little tighter around himself, the reassuring weight of his Sig snug in his pocket. Perhaps he should have grabbed a coffee.

 

“I thought I might find you here,” a soft voice said behind him.

 

“Call me a romantic, I guess,” John replied. “Ending it where we started it.”

 

Mary stepped into view and sat beside him on the bench. “Is he…is he still alive?” she asked quietly, sounding downright _frail_.

 

“Oh please, spare me the bullshit. I know you were the one who shot him,” John snapped. “And yes, you botched that royally. He’s stable and very, _very_ well guarded.”

 

Mary sighed with intensely relief. “Thank god,” she muttered.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” John warned. “Don’t you dare try to pull that on me. You’ve been fooling me for far too long so how about you be real for once, just to try it out. Don’t act like you care _at all_ what happens to him.”

 

“I don’t,” Mary agreed, “but I care about what happens to you, and I know how important he is to you. Moriarty gave me an ultimatum: kill him or he’d kill you.”

 

John laughed. “Oh Mary, Mary, Mary. It doesn’t matter at all. If he dies, I die. You might as well have pulled the trigger on me.”

 

Mary turned pale, horrified. “Oh John,” she breathed, “don’t do it. He wouldn’t want you to.”

 

“He doesn’t control me and neither do you,” John said, laughing again. “Plus, it’s not even my fucking choice. Even if I don’t eat the bullet, it’ll be over for me. I can’t lose him again, Mary. I can’t. I’m not strong enough. I’ll either be a live ghost or a dead one.” He shrugged. “Pulling a trigger doesn’t even factor.”      

 

“John,” she said softly. “I am so sorry. I truly am. I know you won’t forgive me, not after this, but please remember: if the circumstances had been reserved, he would have killed me, and I wouldn't blame him.”

 

John took in a shuddering breath but said nothing.

 

“Doesn’t really matter though, does it Mary?” said a deep voice, dark with anger. Ajath was standing to their left, his gun trained on John. “Your boy is dying anyway.”

 

Sitting on a bench in a secluded, quiet corner of the park out of sight any CCTVs suddenly seemed to have a very bad plan after all.

 

“Ajath!” Mary cried. “What are you doing?! Put that gun down. I kept my end of the deal—I did what Moriarty wanted.”

 

“If you’d kept your end of the deal, Sherlock Holmes would be dead,” Ajath said, his gun staying steady.

 

“It’s not my fault he survived!”

 

Ajath sneered. “That’s not going to work on me, Mary.”

 

A memory rose in John’s mind. _What does it tell you when an assassin doesn’t hit their target? It means they were not trying very hard_.

 

“Technically, he did die on the table,” John said, scrambling for something to say. If looks could kill, Ajath would not have needed his gun in that moment. “Why are you going along with this anyway? Why not just kill Mary ?”

 

Ajath smiled, his eyes filled with a gleeful hate. “She killed my family; I’m killing hers.”

 

_“ _You_ were my family, Ajath! They were my family, too! You know me. I swear you do. I wouldn’t do that. Why? Why the hell would you think I would that?!” Mary cried, both hurt and furious. “You know me.”_

 

“I watched our teammates tortured to death, Mary. _That's_ what I know. We were betrayed by the English woman. Who does that sound like that?” Ajath sneered. “You were a bitch to find—I'll give you that. I'd still be searching for you, too, if Moriarty hadn't contacted me. In the end, running didn't do you any good, did it? Now say goodbye to your financee.” His finger tightened meaningfully on the trigger.

 

“Hold on,” John said desperately. “Are you saying Moriarty approached you? He doesn't do that. He doesn't take initiative. He's a _consulting_ criminal—people come to _him_ not the other way around.”

 

Ajath hesitated. It was clear that what John said had resonated with him. He wouldn't have needed to be around Moriarty for long to learn that.

 

“So, who would want to find you?” John continued, licking his lips. “That's how you'll figure out who your English woman is.” His mind raced through everything they'd learned about A.G.R.A. and Moriarty in the past three days. Who would have benefited from all of this and how? Even the money that was used to hire A.G.R.A. had...

 

Wait.

 

“Mary, do you remember what Mycroft said about the payment that you lot were going to receive, how it had reverted back to the original fund?” John said, brows furrowed deep.

 

“Yes...,” Mary said slowly, not following.

 

“Did you verify that? Think, did Mycroft or Sherlock or _anyone_ verify that?” John said. A horrifying idea was rapidly rising that he couldn't press down.

 

“No, I don't think so,” Mary frowned. “Why would we? Mycroft's information was good about everything I reviewed. And you remember what he said about—“

 

John shook his head rapidly. “No, no, what Mycroft said is that _Anthea_ checked the funds. Anthea checked everything.”

 

Understanding dawned in Mary's eyes. “My god,” she said in horror. “Anthea—the English woman with access to everything the British government has to offer.”

 

“Access with almost no oversight—just whatever Mycroft has time to provide,” John said. “What if he started to notice something she was involved with and so she needed his attention elsewhere?”

 

“Topple Sherlock, topple Mycroft,” she agreed.

 

“One more domino than expected,” John said grimly. “Moriarty didn't come back to torment Sherlock after all. He was _hired_ to do it. We need to contact Mycroft.”

 

“You do realize you haven't convinced me not to shoot you yet,” Ajath said calmly, causing John to pause as he reached for his phone.

 

“Um, well,” he stuttered. “What else do you need? Is what we're saying at least making sense?”

 

“Hella sense,” Ajath said as he causally holstered his gun. “Just don't appreciate being forgotten when I have gun trained on your head. I've heard Jim talking to an Anthea on the phone before, and you're right that she's his employer at the moment, or else he's returning a favor. I'm the muscle, so I haven't been involved in any planning. This is incredibly stupid of me, but what you said just now about Anthea and the funds made me realize something: you didn't have anything to gain from betraying us, Mary. You only had something to lose,” Ajath said, facing his former comrade. “The people who would have benefited....well, it certainly wasn't any of us.   So, talk to me more about Anthea.”

 

Mary and John filled him in what they'd learned in the past three days and he listened, nodding sometimes in confirmation and filling a few gaps. Anthea supervised a lot of the “clean up” work. Missions that went south usually only meant that the operatives died, not that mission failed. She skimmed funds or rerouted them entirely. She'd made millions of pounds, from what Ajath could gather, and she'd picked up not a few pieces of handy blackmail from “evidence” she'd cataloged. One such piece of evidence had been Ajath's thumb drive.

 

“So as part of her clean up, she was to see to Moriarty's disposal, and decided to keep him as a bit of insurance for an escape plan,” John mused, mulling over what they'd learned. “Keep Mycroft occupied with Sherlock's crisis.”

 

“Was me meeting John part of the plan?” Mary asked, her face hard.

 

Ajath shrugged. “Not that I know of. Can't orchestrate love. From what I could glean, she'd recognized Mary from one of the surveillance feeds Mycroft kept on John and took the favor the Universe provided.”

 

John thought he remembered Sherlock once telling him that the Universe was rarely so lazy for coincidences, but perhaps there was something to Ajath's theory—not orchestrating love, and everything he'd felt for Mary was absolutely real and he'd rather not think that even this part of his life was part of Moriarty's games. Besides, “rarely lazy” didn't mean “never”. A big cosmic laugh at his expense. He pushed the thoughts aside—right now, Sherlock was lying on a hospital bed, and every single guard he had was probably under Anthea's thumb. That was what mattered.

 

“Right,” he said, clapping his hands. “What's next? We need to get Sherlock to safety.”

 

“Sherlock doesn't need to die for Mycroft to be distracted,” Mary pointed out. “If anything, him being alive will keep Mycroft distracted for longer.”

 

“Once Anthea's finished with her plans, she doesn't need Sherlock anymore. After that, he goes to Moriarty. That's part of their deal,” Ajath said grimly. “That was provided Mary didn't actually succeed in killing him which, incidentally, he didn't think you'd do,” Ajath added. “He took you for a bigger softie than I did. Not sure if I'm disappointed in you for getting sloppy, but I guess time with civilians changes you.”

 

“Love changes you,” Mary corrected. “How close is Anthea to handing over Sherlock? How much time do we have?”

 

“Sherlock will be moved to a private facility once he's stable enough to handle the journey. There's no way you or I can make it into the hospital without Anthea stopping us. I recommend we head to the facility now,” Ajath said.

 

“I can make it into the hospital,” John said. “I can warn Mycroft. I don't know what good it would do, but I can try. I have my Sig. I'll kill her if I have to.”

 

“He still a good shot?” Ajath addressed this comment to Mary who nodded. “Okay, you're coming with us. Moriarty and Anthea will both be expecting me to have killed one or both of you by now. If you go walking up the hospital, they'll know something has gone wrong. So, down on your knees. I'm going to send a picture.”

 

John could see where this was going, but he didn't enjoy it. He put his hands behind his head and screwed his face into what he hoped was an expression of fearful defiance and Ajath whipped his gun back out, capturing it in the frame as he snapped the photo on his phone. A few seconds later and his phone rang.

 

“Got him. Sent it to Mary, too,” he said. He listened for a moment. “Yeah. Wanna bring him to you so Mary comes. Want to give her more than bullet and thought you might have more fun with him this way.” More listening. “Okay.” He hung up. “Let's get you two into some handcuffs.”

           

 

~*~*~

 

 

John was safe. The thought bubbled up from somewhere dark and quiet and Sherlock eased himself into it, letting the warmth of it roll over him.

 

There was a hole in his heart. Or not heart. Chest. Shot in the chest. Collateral damage. Hardly worth mentioning.

 

Bit inconvenient, though.

 

The warmth increased. John was safe. That was the main thing. He'd made a trade of sorts, and that was fine. Everything was fine. Because John was safe and that meant the hole in his chest was of no consequence.

 

Except it was wrong. Where was John. If he was safe then _where_ was he safe. That mattered, the details. Details of John. Those definitely mattered.

 

Something was weighing him down. A blanket maybe. Or a furnace. Something too warm, anyway. How to measure it, the heat? Degrees of heat. Little matters of science, that. What did the number matter when the aftermath was the same either way? Details. Details of John.

 

Where was John?

 

How many degrees until the aftermath was impossible to clean up? 14,000. The heat needed to evaporate the water in the body. The point at which the body catches fire. Details.

 

His throat parched open, dry and cracking.

 

“Water,” he whispered.

 

Someone laughed. Sherlock passed out.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

 It was the third time in as many days that he'd been kidnapped, John thought with grim amusement. He might have agreed to this, but it felt far too real for comfort and his wrists were aching against the restraints Ajath secured on him. Couple that with the bag over his head and John was beginning to regret agreeing to this plan. Still, Mary trusted the plan and—somehow—he trusted Mary. About this.

 

It was hard to track time rumbling in the back of the van Ajath had shoved them in, but John knew it had been at least an hour before the vehicle stopped and their guard pulled John roughly to his feet. He heard Ajath barking orders as the guard pushed forward and realized Ajath was taking Mary with him, away from John. He quelled a slight panic that tightened in his chest and took deep breaths, focusing on what his senses could tell him.

 

Cool breeze, fresh air. Somewhere outside London. He could hear wind in the trees but no vehicles and knew that the facility was secluded. His feet crunched over gravel until he stumbled up onto a dais of some sort and then into a building. Judging by the echoing of his footsteps the hall was fairly large and something about the smell of place was distinctly medical. This really was a private medical facility. He relaxed marginally.

 

A few turns navigated by the rough hands behind him and John was thrust into a room and the bag yanked off his head. He stared up into the merry scowl of Moriarty. The door clicked shut behind him as Moriarty cheerfully waved the guard away.

 

“Hullo, John! Nice of you to join us. This one hasn't been much company,” he said, jerking his thumb to Sherlock, who was unconscious and strapped to a hospital bed. “Let's have a chat while we wait for him to wake up, mm?”

 

“Sherlock!” John called, eyes sharply scanning over his friend's body and machines, calculating his vitals. His heart rate had sped up briefly at the sound of his name. That was something, but his skin was unnaturally flushed.

 

“Oh please, he's fine,” Moriarty scoffed. “It'd be far too boring if I'd done something before the audience arrived.”

 

“But we can start now?” John asked numbly. He kept his attention focused on Moriarty now, waiting for an opportunity to slip his cuffs.

 

Moriarty's grin stretched wide and his eyes sparkled. “It’s nice, isn’t? The reversal? First you on the bed, and now he! You with your surgeon’s shoulder and him with his drugs,” Moriarty said, waggling a syringe. “Sorry for spelling it out, but you _are_ rather dense, Johnny Boy. I went to a lot of trouble for all this and I’d hate to think you didn’t appreciate it.”

 

“What did you give him?” John asked, his throat constricting.

 

“That's for me to know and you to find out,” Moriarty chuckled. He winked at John before sauntering over to Sherlock's bed and gently caressing his face. “He's such a _dream_ when he sleeps, isn't?” He giggled at his own joke. “But, we wouldn't be good friends if we let him indulge his addictions, now would we?” He yanked Sherlock's morphine IV out of his hand. John couldn't help gasping.

 

“Really, John, it's okay,” he soothed. “Addicts fall off the wagon all the time. We'll help him get through this—together.” He turned back to Sherlock to caress his face again when he paused, the sound of a safety clicking off holding him still.

 

“Don't you dare touch him,” John growled.

 

Moriarty turned slowly to face John, a delighted smile tugging at his scarred mouth. “Ajath figured it out, did he? Wonderful~! Bit slow, that one, but of course he's no you.”

 

“Flattered. Step away from him. Now.”

 

Sherlock moaned in his bed and John's eyes flickered briefly over to his friend. He was waking up. His heart monitor was growing erratic.

 

“Oh, Dr. Watson. If only he were awake to see you! How fierce your eyes are—he'd be positively blushing.” Moriarty looked downright coy. “But he'll be awake soon, won't he? And then what? Are you waiting until then to shoot me? Or is this about something else?”

 

“You need to call off your guards,” John said.

 

“Johnny, I don't give a flying fuck if I live or die. I'm not calling anyone anywhere. But you should know, if you do shoot me, I won't be able to tell you why his temperature is 42 and rising.”

 

John felt his stomach drop. A fever that high would not just come from an infection and it was paramount that it be brought down _immediately_ or Sherlock would suffer permanent brain damage.

 

“Ah! The doctor gets it. It's pretty boring, isn't it? That brilliant mind of his dying from bacteria. But, it's so poetic, too! It's not his heart that's burning—it's his brain!”

 

John wanted to wanted to squeeze the trigger so badly his hand actually hurt, but he couldn't afford to guess what was happening with Sherlock. He needed to lower his body temperature _now_. He began to lower his gun when Sherlock coughed.

 

“John?” his voice was weak. John could see sweat cover his forehead and watched a drop roll down to his neck.

 

“I'm here, Sherlock,” John said, his voice far calmer than he felt. “You made it through surgery but you're very sick. Your fever is too high. Please stay calm.”

 

Sherlock blinked at him and then squinted as he scanned the room and spotted Moriarty. He frowned.

 

“Very alarming timing; I can’t approve. Nefarious circumstances aside, my every—“ he interrupted himself with a gasp, wincing in pain. “Opiates,” he ground out through his teeth, face contorted. He glanced at Moriarty and added sarcastically “S’il vous plait.”

 

John ran the words through his head quickly. V.a.t.i.c.a.n.c.a.m.e.o.s. That could not be a coincidence, even with the additional “vp” on the end. He steadied his gun.

 

“Should he open or tear his incision, may god help you,” John said darkly. S.h.o.o.t.h.i.m. plus an extra “ghy”. Not his best communication, but under the circumstances John thought it wasn’t too bad. His eyes flickered between Moriarty and Sherlock, waiting for confirmation.

 

“Oh Johnny, I have tied down! You can see that, can't you? He won't be moving or tearing anything,” Moriarty cooed, pure innocence. “Now Johnny dear, what was that code? Shoot him? Silly boy. You know you need me.”

 

“Please, John,” Sherlock said quietly.

 

Sherlock was coming off his morphine and had a fever high enough that he should be hallucinating. Logically, John shouldn't trust him right now. But somehow, John always trusted Sherlock.

 

“Jimmy boy,” he said calmly. “I know exactly what you gave him. Nothing at all.”

 

The shot rang loud and Moriarty's grinning corpse sank to the floor.

 

John rushed to Sherlock's bed. “We need to get your temperature down,” he said. He fumbled with the restraints and freed Sherlock's wrists and legs. He grabbed Sherlock's blanket and whipped it off him and then raced to open the windows, trying to cool the air as much as possible.

 

“People will talk,” Sherlock muttered.

 

“People talk anyway,” John said. “I'm going to take off your clothes and get wet towels on you.”

 

“Take me to dinner first,” Sherlock whispered.

 

“Stop talking,” John ordered. He ran a small towel under the sink and wrapped it over Sherlock's forehead.      He tugged up the edge of Sherlock's gown to place a second towel over his legs when he gasped. Heating pads. Moriarty had covered Sherlock's body with military grade heating pads meant to combat hypothermia and, he realized, had placed Sherlock onto of a heating mat as well. No wonder his temperature was soaring. All of that plus the heavy blanket meant Sherlock had practically been cooking alive. He scrambled to remove the pads and then lowered the bar on one side of the bed. Carefully, he scooped up Sherlock and placed him on the floor. Sherlock hummed in relief at the cool linoleum on his skin.

 

“Opiates, s’il vous plait?” he asked, barely able to lift his arm.

 

“Ice first,” John said. He was immensely relieved to find a pile of chemical ice packs in one of the room's cupboards. He crushed and activated them and spread out the packets over Sherlock's skin. “You're dangerously dehydrated. Hopefully I can get you IV fluids but for right now, water will have to do.” He found a cup and filled it with water then carefully propped Sherlock's head on his lap. Sherlock swallowed down a little of the liquid.

 

“You're doing wonderful,” John said softly. “Just a little more.”

 

Sherlock smiled dreamily up at John. His eyes were glassy. “John,” he said, “I think I'm going to pass out.”

 

“Stay with me, Sherlock,” John said, desperately clutching his friend's hand. “Moriarty's men are still everywhere. We're not safe yet. You have to stay with me.”

 

“I'll always stay with you, John. You don't need to ask,” Sherlock murmured peacefully and dropped slowly into a coma.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did y'all see it coming??? I honestly don't like this fic all that much (shame on the author) but I *do* like Anthea the villain. We only see her in two episodes but she still shows up in tons of fanfics and I think it's cool she made that big of an impression. Plus, it's more interesting (to me) to have her as the "secretary that knows everything" instead of Lady Smallwood's chick. *shrug*
> 
> I hope Mycroft doesn't get demoted over this. I like him.
> 
> I also (grudgingly) like Mary. I think the plot twist of her being an assassin was stupid as heck, but considering John did get married in ACD canon, I'm fine with her (other than that). I don't like that they had her overshadow John. He was this BAMF army surgeon and then they're like "but an assassin is cOoLeR" and they made her awesome at *everything* and yeah. Lame as heck. Prior to that, though, she wasn't too bad (she did belittle him some, but at least she wasn't stupid and she was respectful of his relationship with Sherlock).
> 
> Okay so I kind of hate her. XD But I don't hate her as much as most people do? Lol. What a compliment.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Sherlock is disappointed he wasn't there for most of the action, John and Mary part on mostly good terms, and John doesn't connect holding hands and kissing someone's forehead to being love with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small chapter and end of Part 1.

Mycroft looked awful. He always looked awful, of course, but today he looked particularly so, which is the first thing Sherlock said upon waking.

 

Mycroft smiled wearily. “Always a pleasure, our little chats,” he said.

 

Sherlock snorted. “Where’s John?” he asked, attempting to sit up as he looked around his room.

 

“In the hall, talking to Mary. Sit back down—there’s no need to alarm yourself. We know it was Mary who shot you. That’s all been sorted.”

 

Sherlock slumped down, puzzled.

 

“You’ve been in a coma for five days,” Mycroft explained. “After you were shot, Anthea arranged to transfer you to this facility,” he said, gesturing to the room, “which of itself was fine. Unfortunately, Anthea has been working in tandem with Moriarty to keep me preoccupied via you. She was caught in time, thanks in large part to the efforts of John Watson and the remaining members of A.G.R.A. You developed sepsis during your transfer to this facility and Moriarty artificially inflated your fever. Dr. Watson shot and killed him—thoroughly, this time. You’ve been in a fever coma since.”

 

“Really? It all ended behind the scenes? That's disappointing,” Sherlock said faintly with a frown. “Anti-climatic. Boring.”

 

“Careful, brother mine. You’ve picked up a nasty word there. And, you were present to see Moriarty’s brain matter on the window. I think that's something,” Mycroft said pleasantly.

 

“I was unhelpful the entire time. Through this whole fiasco, actually,” Sherlock said with deep distaste.

 

“You have a hole in your chest. I think you get a bit of pass where heroics are concerned. Besides, isn't it time your doctor gets a little bit of the spotlight?”

 

Sherlock’s lips pursed in amusement. “You’ve taken a bit of a shine to him.”

 

Mycroft shrugged noncommittally. “He is competent.”

 

“Hands off,” Sherlock grinned. “I found him first.”

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’ll just pop off and fetch him for you then, shall I?”

 

Sherlock nodded sleepily. “Mycroft?” he said. “I think I’m still high, but it’s good to see you.” He fell asleep again before he could hear Mycroft chuckling.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

John and Mary sat beside each other in the hall, occasionally sipping but mostly ignoring their coffee. John was the notably more worn of the pair, but Mary and Ajath had spent considerable time tracking down rogue agents over the past five days so her fatigue was well-earned. Both were exhausted and found a companionable solace in each other’s company. That portion of their tattered relationship remained intact—the ability to be silent together.

 

Once he had reached the dregs in his cup, John cleared his throat. “I want to thank you. During the time Sherlock was dead, you helped me. I was in such pain and, well, I don't know if I would have made it without you. Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Mary said softly. “It was my privilege. And thank you, for letting me have a taste of a normal life.”

 

They sat in silence again for few a minutes before she nudged him with her elbow and gave him a teasing smirk.

 

“So, you think you’ll get together with Sherlock?”

 

“Oh my god,” John groaned, hiding his head in his hands. “Not you, too.”

 

Mary laughed. “He’s a beautiful man and he loves you. He knows you better than anyone—including me—and he’s completely besotted. That’s not something to throw away lightly.”

 

“And me being straight isn’t supposed to factor in at all?” John said, but without much force behind his words. He was giving up on correcting people. “And just so you know—him being in love with me doesn’t mean he wants to be _with_ me. Dating and sex alarm him.”

 

“John, you look at him like he hung the stars in the sky. The only time you’ve been in a serious relationship since you met him was after you thought he’d been dead for two years. I’ve heard enough of your stories and _seen_ enough of you two together to know that he always comes first for you. He’s that important to you,” Mary smiled. There was no hurt or venom in her words.

 

“You thought he was more important to me than you are and you still wanted to marry me?” John asked in surprise.

 

“Of course I was. I love you,” she said simply. “He makes you happy. How could I deny you that?”

 

John turned to look at her more closely as he considered her. “You’re a little bit wonderful, Mary. I think if we’d done this all differently, you and I could have been very happy together.”

 

Mary smiled and wiped a tear away. “I think so, John. I think so, too. I’m sorry for ruining us.”

 

“Hey, I’m not blameless. I’ve been thinking about us a lot the past few days and there were signs I should have picked up. I think maybe I was purposely ignoring them. I wanted the lie as much as you did.”

 

Mary laughed a little and wiped away a few more tears. “I’ll see you around sometime, maybe. We’re doing some work for Mycroft and he’s in precious short supply of people he can trust.”

 

“Scrapping the barrel about with you lot, isn’t he?” John grinned.

 

Mary looked at him fondly and stood up. “Goodbye, John Watson, and thank you for everything.” She held out a hand.

 

John got up from his chair and hugged her. “Goodbye, Mary Morstan. Thank you for everything, except shooting Sherlock. I’m still really pissed about that.”

 

Somehow they both laughed before pulling away. Mary smiled at him one last and then walked down the hall and was gone.

 

A throat cleared behind him and John turned around to see a slightly awkward-looking Mycroft.

 

“Very touching conversation. Seemed rude to interrupt, but now that it’s concluded, I think you’d like to know Sherlock is woke up.”

           

 

~*~*~

 

 

Sherlock dozed lightly, vaguely aware of nurses and attendants and whoever else filtered into his room. He was safe. He knew it because he knew John was safe. John was there every time he woke up—sans the first time which was, disturbingly, all Mycroft—and even though Sherlock found himself unable to remember what was said, he felt quite content about the whole thing and would simply fall back asleep, smiling.

 

The second time he truly woke up was because he couldn’t see John. He called out and tried to sit up but immediately John was there, gently pressing him back down. He’d sat on the opposite, or maybe Sherlock had looked at the wrong side. He wasn’t sure.

 

“You move around a lot, or the room does,” he explained.

 

John chuckled. “Sorry. How are you feeling? Your color is a lot better today.”

 

“Oh John, you flatterer,” he burbled. “I bet you tell that to all the girls.”

 

John chuckled again. “Only the bedridden ones who look like they’re doing better.”

 

“John,” Sherlock whispered loudly, beckoning him to lean closer. “Did you really kill Moriarty?”

 

“Yes I did. Shot him between the eyes, so that’s a job well done.”

 

“Did you shoot him in this room?” Sherlock asked with excitement. He looked around as if expecting to see evidence or perhaps even a corpse.

 

“Oh course not. We moved you to a clean room. You had sepsis—however much you might have enjoyed the murder room, your health is more important,” John smiled.

 

“Hmm,” Sherlock replied doubtfully. “Mental stimulation is an important part of the healing process.”

 

John laughed again. “I’ve brought you music to listen to and there’s always the TV to yell at, but that’s all you’re getting for the time being. Once you can stay awake for more than five minutes we’ll see if Lestrade can find you some old files or something.”

 

Sherlock’s mind was coming into focus and he frowned, trying to reconstruct the encounter with Moriarty.

 

“I knew about the heating pads. How did you know he didn’t give me anything?”

 

“He told me, when I walked in. He said that he didn't want to start without an audience. Your temperature being that high was just him prepping the stage, or at least that is what I think. I’m not sure that his botched suicide didn’t damage him mentally, a little. The entire thing was, well, not up to his usual standards,” John replied.

 

“I almost died and you killed him,” Sherlock said fondly. “That’s still a good adventure.”

 

“If you say so,” John smiled. “Now go to sleep.”

 

“Sleep is boring,” Sherlock grumbled, but he fell asleep anyway.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

The next several weeks were very trying for John, Sherlock, and Mycroft—largely due to Sherlock’s immense boredom. He completed Lestrade’s tasks in less than a day, conquered a blind Rubik’s cube challenge in less than hour, and used up the nurses’ patience in less than five minutes. Amazingly, John was able to (mostly) placate him with mobile phone games.

 

Mycroft was able to ruthless undo Anthea’s damage in short order, thanks in part to Mary and Ajath doing the tedious “legwork” and to Sherlock’s exceptionally un-distracted mind being available to comb through records. So far as John could gather, Anthea’s crimes were predominately of a financial nature, which was a (very small) relief.

 

At last Sherlock was well enough to return to Baker Street. He was to have a live-in nurse—which he adamantly refused—and John volunteered to stay with him for a few weeks. He arrived with a suitcase the day of Sherlock’s return, feeling a bit like a guest in his own home. It was bittersweet.

 

It was also, surprisingly, not awkward. They fell into their routine with ease. John quickly realized how much he had missed living with his flatmate. The idea of moving back out at the end of the two weeks was painful, but John found himself putting off the conversation he needed to have with Sherlock. He couldn’t consider moving back to Baker Street without discussing the impact that would have Sherlock. At last he could put it off no longer, and he pulled his chair nearer the couch where Sherlock was lounging.

 

“So,” John began nervously. “Last day of the two weeks.”

 

Sherlock was looking at the ceiling, fingers steepled, but John could read his friend well enough to know he was listening and not off in his Mind Palace.

 

He cleared his throat and began again. “Things are, um, quite off with Mary, of course, which leaves me in a state of flux at the moment. Weighing my options. That sort of thing. And, well, I’d like to know how you’re feeling about…everything.”

 

Sherlock studied the ceiling with increasing interest.

 

“Mycroft and I had a bit of an argument about you a while back. I’m going to take my own advice and just _ask_ you, and I’d really appreciate your honest feedback: what is it you want from me, Sherlock?”

 

“Laptop.”

 

“You know I’m not talking about that.”        

 

“And you know I _am_ talking about the laptop.”

 

John gave an extremely exasperated sigh and made no move toward the computer. “So, you don’t want to talk about it. Is that it? Because if you don’t want anything—or even to talk about it—I’ll respect that. We can just stay as we are. But, I’ve had a lot of thought about this, and I think you might want to hear what I have to say.”

 

Sherlock turned his face slightly, but still did not look at John. He did not repeat his request for the laptop, and that was probably about as much as John was going to get.

 

“You’re my best friend, Sherlock. You mean more to me than anyone else in the world. Mary kinda scolded me on that, actually. She pointed out that I put you before romantic relationships, and it’s hard for me to imagine that fact changing. I don’t know if I want a relationship with you, and I don’t know if you want one with me. Provided you do want one, I want to know what that would mean to you. I know it wouldn’t be like a ‘normal’ one, but I don’t need it to be. I know who you are and what you’re like and I don’t want or need that to change. But, I am open to discussing a…change in our current status. Having said that, I am straight. But…,” his voice trailed off as he searched Sherlock’s face for any change of emotion. No luck. “I’m straight, but I think there is a possibility of compromises or working something out. So…what would do you want from me, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock’s hand extended and John momentarily wondered if that was his answer.

 

“Laptop,” he repeated. “And I want you to move back in.”

 

John stared a moment before chuckling. “Right. I can do that.” He got up and passed Sherlock the requested item.

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said without looking up.

 

“A thank you, from Sherlock Holmes? That’s better than a confession. I’ll be expecting top treatment from here on,” John said.

 

A faint smile appeared in the corners of Sherlock’s lips. “Piss off,” he said simply.

 

“I'll start bringing my things round, then,” John said fondly.

 

Sherlock nodded and John started to leave, but paused at the door.

 

“Look, Mary didn't love me. She thought she did, I think, but in the end that wasn't enough. She was never going to be around long term, you know. Her past would have caught up with her. But, she decided to keep playing pretend with me for as long as she could. Maybe, if she'd been honest sooner, maybe...,” John shook his head. “Maybes don't really matter. The simple fact is: she wanted a make-believe life with me more than she wanted a real one. So that's that.”

 

Sherlock considered John's speech for a moment and then nodded. “That's that.”

 

John nodded firmly in reply. “Just wanted to tell you, in case you think she's a 'better' alternative for me, or whatever bollocks you've convinced yourself of, so...,” John said, a little unsure where to go from here.

 

Sherlock finally looked him fully in the eyes. “So that's that,” he concluded.

 

“Right,” John said. “Precisely.”

 

They stared at each other before suddenly giggling.

 

“Now that we've got that elegantly sorted,” John said, “I'm going to go pack. See you this evening.”

 

Sherlock smiled. “See you later, John.” As John padded down the steps, he added quietly, “See you later, and welcome home.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to split this story into two parts because the feel of them is very different, and this way if someone doesn't ship Johnlock (you heathen) you can stop here and be more or less satisfied. 
> 
> Part 2 is smut, where my heart lives. I have a few scenes worked out, but nothing ready to post just yet. Look forward to it (please?).

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to anyone hoping for more Pidgance work. I do have some in process! I just got a bit of a block and then started watching Sherlock, and my little heart started burning (seewhatididthar) and this happened. 
> 
> I canNOT stand what they did to this show. Omg. The subtly of their Johnlock was brilliant--keep Watson straight (as per the original story) but have Sherlock fall in love. He's a complicated character and it follows that his love would be complicated as well. It was simply a *part* of his character/motivation without it becoming his focus. It was background. I liked it. Then in the end of season 3 they backpedal the hell out of that plot point and pretend it never happened, and they make the potentially interesting character of Mary into a stupid twist, AND they had her overshadow John constantly. John gets put down repeatedly by her/her character and it is ridiculous. He was my favorite depiction of Watson by a long shot and then this bullshit happened. Just omg. Not only that, but it is just plain WRONG not to have Sherlock do a thorough check on Mary. Even if they decide Sherlock isn't/never was in love with John, there's nooooo way that curious and snoopy man wouldn't go balls deep into a background check. And Moriarty? Either kill him and be done with it or have him survive. Stop dragging his corpse around. Seriously.
> 
> Just. Yeah. Shoddy writing all around. And I can't even talk about what the shit they did in Season 4. *shudders nauseously*
> 
> /end rant
> 
> *is sorry*
> 
> I haven't quite figured out how I'm going to end this yet because I'm not 100% sure what I want to do with John's character. I do know that I will address his relationship with Sherlock, though, so look forward to that. Also, if I decide not to go the Johnlock route for the conclusion, I will at least do a side story of good ol' fashion smut, no worries. <3
> 
> #moarsmut #ibelieveinsmut


End file.
